


With Abandon or Not At All

by BewareTheIdes15



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-24
Updated: 2011-06-24
Packaged: 2017-10-20 17:04:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen's life was complicated enough when his biggest worry was what crazy color his best friend/roommate/ex-boyfriend/co-executive chef, Jared, was going to dye his hair this week. Then his dreams came true and, somehow, his life started falling apart. Now he's got an insane client to please, a career-making meal to cook, a hodge-podge kitchen staff to corral, embarrassing, half-naked pictures plastered all over the internet and maybe, somewhere in there, a love of his life to win back. His foodie fairy tale isn't working out quite according to plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the spn_J2_bigbang 2011. Beta'd by candygramme and gedry with art (on LJ) by voxmyriad.
> 
> Though brief, there is a scene of Jared/Misha and mentions of prior Jensen/Misha. Also, Danneel is an irredeemable bitch in this, if that bothers you, reading this will probably make you unhappy.

_“Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon or not at all.” ~Harriet van Horne_

  
By rights Jensen and Jared should not be friends. Polar opposites doesn't even begin to cover it; in fact, except for the their mutual love of food, and the fact they both ended up working back of house at the same crappy restaurant as teenagers, they have exactly zero in common.

Jensen developed a love of cooking at a young age, and, by the time he was fourteen, he was so sure he wanted to work in the food industry that he got a job washing dishes at the only restaurant in town that would have him - a greasy spoon on the far edge of the city limits that his mother insisted on picking him up from and dropping him off at, because it was too dangerous a neighborhood to walk in. Jared, on the other hand, could eat enough food to kill a small pony and hung out in the diner most afternoons anyway, so when he was fifteen, he took over the dishwashing position - Jensen had already moved up to the fry station - and instantly won the whole staff over.

Jensen left for the Culinary Institute of America the day after he graduated high school and added on night classes in Manhattan to earn himself a business degree, the combination of which led him to completing his five year plan in just under four years. The day Jared turned eighteen he went out and got an 'I Love Mom' tattoo on his left bicep, except instead of 'Mom' it says 'Bacon'.

Jensen has a filing cabinet in his closet filled with color-coded files of recipes, restaurant reviews, plus biographical info and known-preferences of major food critics. Jared is known for scrawling notes like 'fennel pollen cotton candy' on his arms in permanent marker.

Because of all of this, it made no sense to most people that when brilliant, driven, Jensen Ackles bought a tiny hole in the wall by the Hudson River to open his own restaurant in - the goal he had single-mindedly worked toward since he got his high school diploma - he chose college drop-out/loveable loser, Jared Padalecki as his business partner. But then again, most people just don't understand them.

It's not that they have rules or anything like that - Jared would never be able to cope if they did - it's just that they operate the way they operate, and they don't question it because it works.

For example, this morning when Jared, morning-person extraordinaire, lets himself into Jensen's bedroom - one floor down from his own in the renovated warehouse they share above the restaurant - he sets down a mug of black coffee on the corner of the nightstand so the smell can waft over and wake Jensen up while Jared piles into bed with him and snuggles close. He slides one hand underneath Jensen's chest since he's sleeping on his belly this morning and lays the other over their heads, his nose finding the little warm spot behind Jensen's ear.

He doesn't kiss the spot, even though he could; it wouldn't be particularly weird since Jared is widely known to require a certain amount of physical affection just to survive the day, and Jensen's his main provider - not to mention the well-known but unspoken nine months they spent a couple of years ago legitimately dating - but he still doesn't do it, because that's just how it is. Jensen doubts it would even occur to Jared to try it, because this isn't about sex or anything like that, it's just morning.

The blissful scent of coffee is mixed with a faint, lingering chemical smell that Jensen knows instantly as hair dye and he wonders idly what color the streaks framing Jared's face will be this week. Or maybe he went for roots again; he's been talking about coloring his roots green for a while, debating whether it would look like moss. Misha had insisted that was why he should do it. Anyway, only one way to find out, and Jensen will have to open his eyes eventually.

Blue; the streaks are bright, electric blue, which does look rather fetching with Jared's skin tone.

And, _fetching_? Really? Okay, he needs coffee, like, now.

Reaching out blindly, his fingers find the handle of the mug and he leans up just enough off of the pillow to be able to gulp some without getting a lungful. Bless Jared for knowing to wait until the brew has cooled to a survivable temperature before bringing it in.

"Should I be jealous?" Jared asks, voice kept at a nice, low level that doesn't make Jensen want to brutally murder him - he's really no good at all as a human being before there's coffee. Long, fuschia-nailed fingers stroke lazy little circles against Jensen's torso, probably without even realizing it.

"Of coffee?" Jensen manages to rumble back after a moment, voice echoing slightly in the curve of the mug, "Yes, absolutely."

Jared chuckles, nudging at Jensen's foot with his own as he hitches himself up on an elbow. There's the sound of paper crackling, and then Jared holds up a crinkled sheet of it, tie-dyed with highlighter and at least four different colors of pen-ink.

"No, man, I know I could never top coffee on the friend-o-meter. I'm just wondering if I should be concerned that I wasn't invited to the office-supply orgy?"

Jensen blinks at him, the meaning shimmering fuzzily in his brain. "Words," he intones flatly, chugging down another healthy dose of smart-making caffeine.

"Aw," Jared coos, petting softly at the stubble prickling on Jensen's cheek, "you're so cute when you're brainless."

Jensen retorts wittily by sticking out his tongue.

"Seriously though, you're sleeping with the menu plan? I know you love your work, but we're reaching previously untapped levels of creepy if you've started having one night stands with it," He pauses a moment, looking down at the arduously detailed notes in his hands, a grimace slowly tipping his lips, "Also, I now feel sullied on the food's behalf by the idea of you jizzing on this"

"Pervert," Jensen jibes back automatically, snatching the paper from Jared's fingers, "You wrinkled it."

"You left it lying on the bed," is Jared's teasing reply, "For all you know, you wrinkled it in your sleep."

Jensen makes a non-committal sound at that, not really up to wasting his precious energy on a pointless argument with Jared. He'd been planning to copy it all over to a clean page before the client meeting this afternoon anyway - once he decides between the modified osso buco and the braised lamb shank. Or maybe they should combine the two, do a sort of lamb osso buco? Or maybe just pull the meat and mix it up with the marrow for an osso buco ravioli - did he read about that somewhere or have they just talked about it before?

Jared's hand claps over Jensen's mouth before he even gets it halfway open to ask.

"Jensen, it's going to be fine." Jared's speaking slowly and calmly, a small quiver at the corner of his mouth betraying his amusement. "She wouldn't be meeting with us if she didn't like what we do. Don't be that tool who tries too hard."

His "I just want to be prepared," comes out sounding a lot more like, "Muh nuss wha neh beh mamen" but he knows Jared knows what he means - already knew it before Jensen said it.

"You are," Jared promises, forcing Jensen's head to grudgingly nod with the pressure of his hand, "And if you're not, I'll rip off my shirt and distract her." His grin is entirely too bright for this hour of the morning, especially when Jensen's stomach is still doing the jitterbug over the osso-buco-or-lamb-or-just-pick-some-other-protein debate. It wipes away completely when Jensen licks a broad stripe across the inside of Jared's palm.

Jared whines, "Ew! Gross!" trying to wipe the spit off on Jensen's cheek, even though he seriously had to have known that was coming. He ends up tackling Jensen to the bed, getting about as much of the half-dry saliva on himself as he does on Jensen, but giggling anyway, trying to lick Jensen's face in retaliation. Yes, they're gigantic six-year-olds. With Jared, he's pretty much ok with that.

***

The first time Jensen realizes Jared's more than just some kid he works with, he's almost seventeen. It's Jared's first day working prep, and so far things had been going smoothly. Jensen had been working with him some during the afternoon shifts on his knife skills, teaching him how to chop everything evenly and efficiently. The kid's got the attention span of a toddler on speed, but he's got a work ethic Jensen would have never have credited him with a year ago when he first walked into the kitchen with his stupid, floppy hair in his eyes.

Jared cuts himself about an hour and half into the shift. It's not a bad cut, not stiches and a trip to the hospital, but bad enough that blood is trailing after him as he rushes to the sink. Jensen follows him automatically, leaving his own prep laid out at his station to check on his self-appointed apprentice.

Jared's a big guy, lanky, but it's already easy to tell where he'll pack on muscle once he gets older. The bean-pole thing combined with those wide, soulful eyes are just too much though; make him look like the world's biggest infant and a Labrador puppy all rolled up into one gangly package. When he looks up at Jensen - well, ok, not 'up' - there's a soft tint of worry there, nothing major - from the stories Jared's told, he's no stranger to injury - but still enough to pull on Jensen's heartstrings so that he herds the younger boy into the walk-in where they keep the first aid kit.

It's not that Jensen's a heartless bastard or anything; he has as much empathy as the next guy, but he's also what his mother tactfully refers to as 'emotionally distant'. He doesn't get all weepy over Hallmark commercials, or those moments in movies where two lovers run into each other’s arms in the rain, he doesn't jump up and down and scream for joy when something good happens or spend a lot of time pining over anybody in particular at school, and while he does get pissed off on occasion, especially the ever-more-common tendency people have to question his career goals, he's got a long fuse on his temper and very rarely blows up. So it's strange how instantaneously his protective urges kick in with Jared, how strongly he feels the need to take care of the kid.

"It'll be fine," he says soothingly, closing the cut with a single butterfly bandage, "Just don't bend your finger too much and keep it under a glove." He wraps the cut fast and efficient, carefully not looking up into the emotive hazel eyes he can feel locked on him.

Jared's hand is too big for the latex gloves they keep in the back for these occasions, so Jensen deftly snips the middle finger off of one and rolls it down onto the injured digit.

Without a second thought, he draws Jared's hand up to his mouth and doesn't even realize what he's doing until after he's got smooth latex pressed up against his lips in a soft kiss. He can feel his cheeks pink up instantly. He drops Jared's finger from where he had it cradled with his own and turns around to clean up.

"We're gonna pretend I didn't just do that, ok?" he grunts, face stingingly hot in the cool of the walk-in.

"Ok," Jared replies and Jensen doesn't have to turn around to know that the kid's smiling.

"It's just... my sister, you know? It's like a habit." Jensen can't decide if it's more or less manly that he's just admitted to kissing his little sister's boo-boos.

"It's ok, I get it. I have a kid sister, too" Jared pats Jensen's shoulder with his uninjured hand and gives it a squeeze. Jensen listens to the walk-in door shunk shut after him and takes a minute or two longer than strictly necessary putting away the first aid kit to get his head back on straight.

***

"Just admit it."

"There's nothing to admit."

"You wanna bone the client. You wanna bone the cliiiient," Jared singsongs all the way back to the kitchen, adding in an extra special hip-thrust dance once they've made it into the relative safety of the back, where everyone's prepping for the night. "You wanna bone the _cliiiieeeent_."

Misha's head pops up, cheek marred by a thumbprint of the flour he's mixing into his pate a choux. "Jensen wants to bone the client?"

"No, I do not," Jensen scowls defensively - because he absolutely does not want to bone the client; he doubts his ego could handle the inevitable critique. "I want to impress the client, because the client is getting us into The New York Food and Wine Festival and is specifically bringing a reporter from The New York Times - maybe you've heard of it? - to our dinner."

That gets the attention of Sandy, who jumps in with "The _Times_ , seriously?" a heartbeat away from brandishing around with the cleaver in her hand before visibly remembering and plunking it down on her cutting board.

"As a heart attack," Jensen grins back, glad to have somebody around who understands the gravity of the situation.

Jared helpfully slings an arm around Jensen's shoulders and adds, "He wants to bone the client."

"Jared, I swear to fucking God."

Chris' put upon sigh breaks through the tirade Jensen was all set to launch into - and the flurry of snapping dishtowels that would inevitably follow; sometimes it amazes Jensen that he and Jared ever get anything done in the kitchen – with, "Will you two just fuck and get it over with please?"

Jared smirks in return, "Been there, licked that." Which, of course, he feels the need to prove by attempting to lick Jensen for the second time today. He's beginning to wonder if maybe it's some kind of lick-related holiday and he didn't get the memo.

"Oh mental images," Chris whines, covering his eyes with the back of his hand.

Sandy purrs, arching back against the counter for extra effect. "Oh, _mental images_!" She licks her lips and scrunches her nose at her own joke. Misha just looks wistful.

To their credit, between the two of them, they've only ever fucked one employee; unfortunately that one employee had to be Misha, and, while they’d at least been smart enough not to fuck him at the same time, Misha still hadn't given up the hopes of that threesome idea. Now _there_ was a disaster just waiting to happen.

“Oh," Jared adds, rolling his eyes, "and she wanted to make very, very sure that we’re all going to be wearing whites for the event. ‘You know how snobby some food people are’.” He flutters his lashes coquettishly and snorts around a laugh that the rest of the crew echo.

Alright, yes, that had been a ridiculous stipulation, but Jensen's not really sure he can blame Ms. Harris - Jared's 'You Just Ate Poison' t-shirt wasn't really helping matters. He makes a mental note to try and get Jared to limit his client-meeting wardrobe to the 'Hyrule Fencing Club,' ‘Without Me It’s Just Aweso,’ and ‘Practice Safe Lunch; Use A Condiment’. Then he takes a moment to be sad that he just thought that without a hint of irony - he's pretty sure he could have passed for normal before he met Jared. Mostly. Alright, maybe not, but still, more normal than this.

***

“Hiiii Jensen!”

 _Oh shit, what happened?_

“Hello, Miss Harris.”

“Oh, sugar plum, call me Danneel.”

 _Sugar plum? Really? Ok…_

“Alright, _Danneel_ , what can I do for you?”

“So I’ve been reading a lot lately about the sustainability of Chilean sea bass and I’m just not sure that we’re sending the right message serving it, you know, lemon drop?”

“Um, yeah, no I understand. But we’re not serving Chilean sea bass; we’re serving black bass, it’s different.” _This is what you called me about? I hate that I’m even having this conversation right now. I still have a job, you know? 8 PM is kind of right in the middle of service, in case you were wondering._

“Yeah, of course, I understand, but I’m just worried about drawing attention to it in case anyone got confused. I’d hate for anyone to get the wrong impression about you boys.” _‘You boys’ meaning you, of course. Because none of these people at the friggin’ Food and Wine Festival are going to be food professionals, so they couldn’t possibly tell the difference between two completely different types of fish that both happen to have ‘bass’ in the name._

“Ok, well, we could try, uh, barramundi or maybe triggerfish. We’ll have to rework the dish some.” _Because we haven’t spent days planning out the exact notes in the dish to compliment this protein. God, I can’t believe Jared thinks I want to have sex with you._

“Sure, sure, baby. That’s fine, whatever you need. I know you can handle it. Call me if you need anything, m’kay? Alright. Buh-bye.”

 _Did she just? She did. She just hung up on me. This Times write up had really better be worth it._

***

Jared's place looks a lot like what Jensen imagines the inside of Jared's head would look like. Things are strewn around in a way that seems haphazard, but Jared knows exactly where everything is and if someone - _cough_ , Jensen, _cough_ \- where to come in and rearrange things in, say, any semblance of logical order, Jared would never find anything again. The walls are bright, two orange and two blue with black and white accents which seems like it ought to clash, but like everything else about Jared, somehow doesn't. The furniture is a mix-match of things he'd inherited from his parents and stuff from second hand shops, plus a couple of things Jensen had bought for him over the years, because seriously just stacking your books on the floor is unacceptable after any age that ends in -teen.

Like Jensen's apartment, it's one big room, the living room delineated from the bedroom by a six inch drop in the floor. There’s no kitchen, but then they’re literally two floors up from the restaurant, so buying clearly inferior residential cooking equipment had seemed pointless. There _is_ a long bar lining one wall with a microwave, inset refrigerator and a liquor cabinet that has ended in some of the worst hangovers of Jensen's life.

Jared doesn't really have art, besides a _Killing Joke_ poster hanging on the wall over the couch, but most of the walls are covered anyway in lovingly tacked up photos and unevenly hung frames. Jared loves to take pictures - if it hadn't been for culinary, he'd probably have made a kickass photographer - so about half of the shots on the walls are by Jared himself. Pictures of his family, his parents’ dogs, his friends from high school and later from the restaurant. There are a lot with Jared goofing around with those people, grin on his face that you can feel all the way through the glossy print and can't help but smile right back at. And then there are the ones with Jensen. Probably too many, really, for a platonic friendship.

There are some from when they were younger, one with Jensen in his graduation gown, another with Jared in his. There's the one with them standing outside of their building, back when it had just become theirs, the facade still grimy and littered with broken bottles and then one from the first day they opened, everything shiny with elbow grease and desperation, the manic smiles on their faces as much nerves as excitement.

There are some of him working, candid shots with him in his whites, dripping with sweat, a flush high on his cheeks, and plenty of others with the two of them together, their faces too close to the screen as they laugh or make faces or kiss.

There's one that Jensen decides to steal whenever he's feeling particularly annoyed with Jared - another candid shot, taken when Jensen was asleep face-down on Jared's bed; pale blue sheets glowing in the bright sunlight and rumpled most of the way off of Jensen's obviously naked body. He looks happy in that one, even in his sleep, and it's always the first thing that strikes him when he sees it. After that, he notices the lights and shadows playing off of his skin, the dips of his muscles, the way the sheet just barely hangs on the curve of his ass so that there's only the faintest shade of the top of his cleft showing. He strongly suspects Jared posed the sheets that way but he's never called his friend on it.

He can't remember any more if it was taken while they were dating or not.

Occasionally he decides to bitch about it, because it is his body up on Jared's wall for anyone who comes in to see, but then he knows that there's a set of much more revealing photos Jared's got tucked away somewhere, so every time he goes up there and doesn't find the image of his lips stretched wide around Jared's cock pasted all over the place, he figures he'll take that as a win.

Besides, it's a pretty good picture.

Jared's sprawled about halfway off the couch, with his legs spread as far out as it's physically possible to get them. He's got his Xbox controller in his hands, metallic-silver nails standing out against black plastic, cell phone snugged between his cheeks and shoulder as he puts in appropriate 'mm's and 'uh-huh's at the right moments, tongue making a valiant attempt at escaping out the left side of his mouth. It's a very good thing Jared didn't go into a career field where he'd have to use a lot of single-minded concentration because he'd look like an idiot all day long with his tongue constantly poking out of the corner of his mouth.

"Yes, ma'am, he just walked in. I'll tell him. Absolutely. You too. Bye." Jared doesn't so much hang up as just let the phone fall off of his shoulder into his lap. "Your mom says hi and she loves you," he explains without looking up from the TV screen, not that Jensen can blame him - Madden.

"Well, I guess tell her the same next time you talk, you giant freak of nature." He sits down next to Jared to watch him manipulate the Cowboys into a stunning win over the Dolphins. Heh, yeah, the Dolphins, like that's a challenge.

It should probably be several times weirder than it is that Jared talks to Jensen's mom more than Jensen does, and it probably would be if he wasn't all the time taking calls from Mrs. Padalecki. That does not mean he can't or shouldn't tease Jared mercilessly about it. This time of year it's even worse because both of their mothers are doing recon for Christmas gifts, which inevitably means that Jensen's mom is going to get him something Jared wants, and Jared's mom will get something Jensen wants, and once they get home, they'll trade. It's actually a very effective system.

"So what's uuuuuuuaaaaaahhh!"

Jensen's just going to assume that was going to be 'up,' before the Dolphins miraculously intercepted that pass and Jared forgot he was in the middle of talking. Perfect timing.

"So I was thinking of changing up some of the sides on the Harris menu," he says, quick, quiet and calm. It'll probably slip right under Jared's radar.

"Jensen!" Jared groans, slathered in exasperation. So much for under the radar.

"What?!"

"Jensen!"

"What?!"

"Jensen!"

"This isn't fun anymore."

Jared bangs the controller against his forehead, sighing, "You've already changed the menu like fifty bajillion times!"

"I seriously doubt the accuracy of your estimation," Jensen deadpans back.

"I seriously doubt the accuracy of your face."

"I'm changing the sides," he replies firmly.

"No you're not," Jared glowers, "The sides are perfect. Little individual works of art and I'll hack off any body part you get close to them."

"They're just sides!" Jensen exclaims indignantly.

"So then it shouldn't matter if they don't get changed." Jared crosses his arms, all smug satisfaction like he thinks he just won this argument.

"But-"

"No!"

"They're going to be _wrong_!" There might be a slight edge of desperation in Jensen's voice, but it's not his fault - Jared's being completely unreasonable, and this is the meal of their careers! They have to get this right, damnit!

Jared claps a hand on either side of Jensen's face, smushing his cheeks together. "They're going to be the best sides in the history of human existence."

"Only if I change them," Jensen mumbles around the forced-purse of his lips, trying to shrug off his overgrown man-child of a best friend.

"Which you aren't."

"You're a bastard."

"Dude, you've totally met my dad." Jared finally relents and releases Jensen's face. He has to work it for a moment or two, double-checking his jaw isn't displaced or anything else he could use to blackmail Jared into giving him a little leeway on the side dish issue.

"Bu-" he tries again.

"No!" Jared snaps at him sternly, one finger extended like a warning - like his freaking mother - "That is final. Don't make me put you in the time out corner."

Jensen snorts, "Yeah? You and what army?" already knowing what's coming but unable to resist anyway.

Jared does a Hulk Hogan flex for him, muscles straining at the edges of his tee's sleeves. "Me and these armies," he smirks back, leaning in to kiss each bicep.

"God," Jensen laughs despite himself, "you're fucking cheesy."

Jared grins in return. "You love it."

Hawk-like, Jared watches him for a minute, warily turning back to his game. Jensen bides his time, letting the Cowboys score another touchdown, the tap-tap-tap of Jared's – eight – rings on plastic the only sound.

"What if we just switch the Brussels sprouts?" he jumps in, quiet and fast, spilling it all before Jared's even got a chance to hit the pause button. "I've been thinking about this beef tongue vinaigrette."

The look his partner turns on him is malicious, doesn't match the amused sparkle in his eyes at all as he tosses aside the controller and lunges. "That's it, you're dead!"

***

The first time Jensen realizes Jared's more than a friend is the night he graduates high school. He's spent the night hanging out with his family and a few of their close friends, celebrating - Jensen's never really been good with people his own age. It's close to three in the morning when Jared calls and Jensen can tell just by the couple of extra 'e's tacked onto his 'hey' that his friend is drunk.

"Where are you?" he asks automatically, already rolling out of bed, the last vestiges of sleep hanging on him like static cling.

"Outside," Jared drawls, vowels long and round. Jensen tugs on a pair of sweatpants and rummages through the hamper for something that doesn't smell like day-old fryer grease.

"Outside where?" Jensen prods, snagging his car keys from the little bowl on his desk. This is not his first encounter with Jared, The Uncooperative Drunk.

Jared laughs and Jensen can actually hear the eye roll. " _Outside_ outside," Jared says emphatically, as if that clears up absolutely anything. "Outside _your house_."

Oh.

Jensen tries to be quiet going down the stairs, but his family is famous for being heavy sleepers, some kind of weird genetic thing, so he's not too worried. If Jensen had had any kind of social life in high school, that would have been really handy.

Jared's laid out on his back porch when Jensen opens the door, his legs sprawled loosely out from the cement steps. He turns another 'hey' into a three syllable word and lets Jensen manhandle him into the house and slowly up the stairs. It's a very, very good thing that his parents are heavy sleepers or else they'd definitely be up after Jared's exaggerated 'shh', complete with a cringe-worthy spray of spittle against Jensen's ear - Jensen is positively overflowing with joy. Then again, his parents are pretty well used to Jared, so they might not even care about having a drunk seventeen year old carried up their stairs in the middle of the night.

Jared has some rather serious boundary issues; i.e. he has no boundaries. Jensen's used to this by now, so it's no surprise that once he's got Jared flopped out on his bed, the younger man curls in on himself and hugs Jensen's pillow to his chest, taking up virtually the whole single bed.

Valiantly, Jensen struggles to get Jared's dusty, oversized Vans off. He finally succeeds, with no help whatsoever from the man himself, who is snuffling into Jensen's pillow and smiling dopily.

Jensen shucks the pants he'd put on and climbs back into bed, shoving at Jared until they're at least at a reasonable mattress ratio - not that it really matters with the way Jared immediately clings to him like an attention-starved spider monkey.

"Take me with you," he mumbles against the hinge of Jensen's jaw, legs wound around his own so completely it seems like he must have rubber bones.

"Pardon?" Jensen asks, then has to take a moment to try and mouth away the waves of fine, purple-tipped hair that stick to his tongue.

"I'm serious," Jared pulls back slightly, effectively solving Jensen's problem for him. He's wearing the sad-puppy face, but his bleary, slightly unfocussed eyes are intense. It might be more effective if the glitter on his cheeks - what has he been up to tonight? - didn't keep catching in the thin moonlight filtering through the window, making him look like a cherub who got caught in a rave. "I'm legal now, I can go wherever I want. We could go to New York together, it'll be awesome. You and me take Manhattan."

Jensen sighs, awkwardly dragging a hand up through the tight space between them to cup the side of Jared's face. He'd been worried this was coming - Jared hadn't come right out and said it before, but he'd definitely hinted, maybe hoping Jensen would offer.

"First of all," he says, putting on his best debate team voice, "Seventeen's only legal in Texas. Secondly, I don't think the dorms allow pets, especially enormous, teenage, human ones. Thirdly, you have to finish high school."

Jared 'psh'es fervently. Oh lovely, more spittle. "Not gonna use it anyway. Already know what I want to do."

"That may be," Jensen pointedly wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, though Jared appears to remain oblivious, "But you still need a high school diploma, just in case. You never know where life will take you, Jay."

"Sound like my Dad," Jared grumbles petulantly.

"Well, he's a smart guy."

That damn bottom lip of Jared's pokes out and he turns his face toward the pillow, rubbing his cheek against it kittenishly like he's going to smother himself in poly-fil if Jensen doesn't give him his way. "You don't want me with you?" he asks, voice disconcertingly deep around the pouting-child tone.

"It's not that," Jensen appeases, carding his hands through Jared's hair, dragging his nails just a little, the way that makes his friend's eyelashes flutter. "It just doesn't work that way."

"Why not?" If possible, his lip sticks out even more, but Jensen can't really gauge it from this distance since Jared also nudges their noses together just a little, hazel eyes overwhelming the scope of his vision.

"Because not everything in the world bends to the will of the Padalecki puppy eyes," he half jokes, letting his fingers come to a rest over the steady pulse in Jared's neck. The skin is still a little rough to the touch where the tattoo – the illegal tattoo; he’d really thought his parents were going to have to adopt Jay to save him from Sherri – still hasn’t fully healed over. He traces the trail of mushrooms, stars and fire flowers – all of the Super Mario power-ups – with gentle fingers, smiling because Jared may be an idiot sometimes, but he’s his very own brand of idiot.

"But why?"

Jensen really has to laugh then, it's not even optional. "What are you, five?" he groans, half amusement, half frustration, "Just because, ok? That's just how the world works." Jared ducks his head, eyes focused somewhere on Jensen's cheek. He actually _does_ look like he wants to smother himself in a pillow and it makes the funny little Jared-thing in Jensen's chest ache. "Look, I'd love to have you there, don't know what I'm gonna do without you around to bug me, but you have to take care of yourself first, ok? You can always come to New York after you graduate."

"But I'll miss you," Jared complains quietly. His fingers bump-bump-bump over the knobs of Jensen's spine through his t-shirt - the old Warped Tour shirt that used to be Jared's before it somehow ended up living at Jensen's house - playing up and down them like a xylophone. It's a nervous habit, and a part of Jensen wonders what level of odd it is that rubbing Jensen’s spine is one of Jared's nervous gestures. It seems to help a little when he squirms himself in closer to his friend's body so they're chest to chest.

"I'll miss you too, Jay," he murmurs, lungs unexpectedly threatening to lock up. He's done the goodbye, love you, miss you thing with half the people he knows tonight, sat through most of an hour of his mother breaking into tears over how grown up he is, and moving so far away, and how proud they all are, and he hadn't even choked up once. It's weird, and maybe kind of wrong that Jared’s the one drawing out a reaction.

"A lot?"

"A whole lot."

"How much?"

A ghost of his earlier laugh bubbles up in Jensen's throat, but it mostly comes out as a gusty breath. "God! You're gonna get sick of me calling, ok? We'll talk all the time, every day, I promise. And I'll still come home for breaks, so you'll see me then."

Jared's silent for a moment, though Jensen can practically feel the alcohol-sludged gears in his mind turning. Finally he looks back at Jensen through the lacy veil of his lashes and plucks a little at the back collar of Jensen's shirt.

"So, like, a mega lot?" he probes tentatively.

Jensen presses in just the tiniest bit where his fingers have slid to a rest at Jared's waist, a small, reassuring squeeze. "Yeah." It feels like a promise, or maybe a prophesy. Jared does weird things to his head.

Jared smiles, mega-watt grin almost blinding from so close up. "Cool."

Tilting his head up gives him a little more air that wasn't already Jared's, makes the room seem a little cooler as he shuts his eyes, his chest a little less constricted. "Get some sleep, Jay," he says, rubbing gentle circles with his fingertips against Jared's side.

"Hey Jensen?" Jared whispers minutes later, jerking Jensen back from the very brink of the doze he was settling into.

"Yeah?" he mumbles back, losing part of it on a yawn.

When his lips pull back together, they're not alone, Jared's getting all mixed up in there along with a warm hint of tongue. It's not the first time they've kissed, it's not even the tenth, but it never fails to make Jensen's stomach do a ballerina spin, body going immediately too hot, too sensitive to every barely-there brush of Jared's fingertips along his jaw, his throat, his goosebumpy arms.

With anyone else, Jensen would try to classify this not-quite-friends, not-quite-more thing they have; whether it means something or is supposed to mean something; if it makes them gay or if it's just another one of those things about their friendship that bends any kind of natural order. Typically, he likes his life in neat lines and ordered boxes, but Jared throws off that kind of thing just by being in the room, and when he suckles on Jensen's lower lip like that... well, he certainly doesn't have the brainpower left to classify anything, let alone care that it's not defined. Instead he surrenders and opens up to let the tip of Jared's tongue tickle at the delicate flesh on the underside of his own.

He lets himself get lost in the feel of Jared's warmth against him, the taste of his breath, that thing he does with his fingers at the nape of Jensen's neck that makes his spine start to buzz like it's been plugged into an overused electric socket; all sparks and ebbs and flares. Somewhere along the line it occurs to him that he doesn't know how long it's going to be before he can feel this again; if he'll ever get to feel this again, if Jared will still want it and it will still be ok to do it once he's put so much space between them. By the time they finally stop, he's holding onto Jared so hard his fingers hurt.

"A mega lot," Jared whispers, voice sticky-thick with kissing and cheap liquor and sleep, "Me too."


	2. Chapter 2

"Hey, Jensen, it's Danneel."

 _What now?_

"Hi, Danneel, what can I do for you?"

"I was just calling to let you know that we're changing the head count to 64 - couple of plus ones got added in. That won't be a problem, will it?"

"No, no, of course not. We'll just have to make a few adjustments." _Need another roast, maybe two, to be safe. Wonder if she got the dietary restrictions list yet? Who am I kidding, of course not, because I couldn’t possibly need the list of dietary restrictions to plan an alternate menu!_

"Fabulous. Oh, also, while I've got you..."

"Yes?"

“Well, I’ve been thinking…”

 _That must have been a refreshing change for you._

"I just wanted to double-check about Jared."

 _Wait, what?_

"What about him?"

"Well, I just wanted to be sure, you know, that everything will be... appropriate. Not that I mind at all, of course, but it's just some of these people are little 'old world', you know. I mean, the whole rockstar chef thing is fine if you’re doing street food but this, well, obviously, it's another level. It's the Times! There's a certain level of decorum expected."

 _Yes, very aware it’s the_ Times _actually, thanks. Why do you think I’m putting up with you?_

"Of course. Everything will be perfectly... decorous." _Is that even a word? Oh, whatever. Just get her off the phone._

"Oh good, so you'll take care of his -ness then."

 _Ok, seriously, what?_

"His _ness_?"

"Yeah, you know, just... the way he is. You know what I mean. More Danny Meyer, less Eddie Huang."

"Oh, I-" _Has this woman ever seen Eddie Huang? Or Jared, for that matter?_

"Exactly! Thank you so much, pop tart! You can't imagine what a relief that is. Well, you just call me if anything comes up, ok? Alright. I'll talk to you later! Buh-bye."

 _Wait, did she just hang up on me again? Did she just compare Jared to Eddie fucking Huang? Did she just call me_ pop tart?

 _Strangling the client would be bad, strangling the client would be bad. I can’t remember why, but strangling the client would be bad._

***

Jared bursts through Jensen’s door on a yell of "I am a genius! Full of geniosity!" He’s decked out in his dancing monkey pajama pants and an unzipped sweatshirt, hair sticking up at random angles like he’d just crawled out of bed. Considering that it’s three in the morning, that seems rather likely.

"You're full of something all right," Jensen yawns in return, sliding his fingers underneath his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose. The balances on the printouts in front of him started swimming a little while ago, but he really does need to get this done.

"Bitch,” Jared snarks without heat, “Taste this." A spoon dances a bare inch from Jensen’s face, coated in some kind of dark sauce. Jared’s been experimenting again.

Jensen gives some serious consideration to refusing – he has become well acquainted with the downsides of being Jared’s guinea pig over the years – but this actually smells good, and the odds of Jared relenting are pretty low anyway, so Jensen sticks his tongue out and takes a tiny taste off of the proffered instrument. Red wine, butter, soy, yuzu maybe, and something sweet, all slowly mellowing into just a hint of a burn at the back of his throat. It’s rich and sharp with just that touch of spice; Jensen can easily see it with meats or game bird, possibly a light glaze on that monkfish dish they’ve been playing around with…

"It's... it's fine," Jensen admits non-committally, taking another taste to more thoroughly coat his palate. Very interesting.

Jared glares at him. " _Fine?_ Whatever, you're just jealous of my brilliance. Don't hate, Jen." He sits himself down on the desk – smack in the middle of the paperwork Jensen was doing; Jared is completely lacking in subtlety when he thinks Jensen’s working too hard and it’s time to give it a rest – popping the spoon into his own mouth to clean off the remainder.

The yellow light of the desk lamp throws him into sharp relief, all shadows and highlights, valleys and angles. A constant contrast from his child-bright eyes to the fine statuesque lines of his face, rippling torso down to the cartoon monkey faces staring up from his pants. His ness. Jensen’s stomach does a barrel-roll and he almost hopes that it’s because of the sauce. He’s been putting this off for days.

“Look, Jay…”

Jared pulls the spoon out of his mouth with an audible pop, “Seriously, you cannot tell me that this isn’t awesome.”

“No, it’s not that,” Jensen scrubs at the back of his neck with one hand, “It’s… look, it’s not even a big deal, ok? It’s just Danneel-“

“Danneel, huh?” Jared cuts him off, one eyebrow lifted like a question Jensen doesn’t understand, “Not _Miss Harris_ , or _the Harris girl_. Didn’t know you two were getting so cozy.”

Jensen blinks incredulously for a second. “What? Of course we’re on a first name basis; have you seen how often she calls me?”

“Kind of hard to miss, actually,” Jared grumbles, lips pursed slightly as he picks at some imaginary lint on his sleeve. And really? That’s… Jared’s not seriously…

“Wow, act more like a jealous lover, I dare you.”

That gets a bark of wry laughter, Jared heaving himself up off of the desk to walk aimlessly to the other side of the room. “Man, you can do whatever you want. I’m just saying if you decide to date the crazy chick, she’s not getting the Jared stamp of approval.”

“I don’t want to date her, alright?” Jensen snaps back – honestly, there’s not enough money in the world – and Jared’s just making this already difficult topic even harder to get to. “I’m just trying to keep things on track. For the restaurant. You know, that thing we’ve dedicated the last seven years of our lives to?”

“Fine, whatever you say, Jen,” Jared’s hands lift in defeat, but there’s not an ounce of it in his tone. He flops down on Jensen’s bed, taking up every available inch of space with his long, spindly limbs. “So what is it about _Danneel_ that’s got you so fidgety?”

Jensen is definitely not fidgety, he’s not. He plants the sole of his foot firmly on the floor to make it stop bouncing. “It’s… she’s a little fussy, as you know.”

“No shit.”

“And she just wants you to... be a little less eye-catching for the event,” Alright, fine, so Jensen’s rushing through the words – he and Jared have had this conversation a couple thousand times over the years and it never ends well, so excuse him for trying to get it over with fast. “Just, wear the whites, maybe ditch the jewelry, don’t do your nails. Nothing big.”

“Nothing big,” Jared repeats dumbly, “So just, like, everything about me.”

Jensen’s sigh is shunted back at him from the hand he scrubs over his face. Of course Jared couldn’t be reasonable just this once, that would be too much to hope for. “You’re more than the way you look. And it’s only for one night.”

“Remind me why exactly we’re supposed to cater to this woman’s every whim?” Jared’s scowling – his obstinate face – which means that even the best crafted argument is officially a lost cause from here on in, but Jensen’s not about to give up over a little thing like that. That would be like admitting defeat!

“Um, how about because we’re _catering_ for her?”

“Yeah, _the food_. We’re catering _the food_. What the fuck does it matter what I look like while I’m doing it?”

“It _doesn’t_ matter. It’s just this weird thing she has, and it doesn’t hurt anything to indulge her a little.”

Jared sits up, flinging one of the pillows off the bed in his wake – because he’s a fucking child! – and fixes Jensen with a pointed stare. “Ok, if you’re not trying to get your dick wet, then why do we all have to kiss this bitch’s ass?”

“What part of this don’t you get?” he rails back, “The New York Food and Wine Festival! _The New York Times_! This could _make us_ , Jared!”

“Have we been starving without my noticing? Missing rent payments? Have we had any trouble lately getting butts in the seats?” Now Jared’s up, pacing, agitated, and Jensen is intimately familiar with the feeling, “Because from where I’m standing, we’re doing pretty good all on our own.”

“Fuck _pretty good_!” At least they’re both standing now, on equal footing, both of them probably ready to tear each other’s hair out – Jensen knows he certainly is, “I haven’t worked my ass off for years to settle for _pretty good_. We’ve got an actual shot here at the kind of attention most chefs would kill for and you want to throw it away because of the _dress code_? Suck it up, and get over yourself, Jared. You’re just as bad as she is!”

Ok, that last bit? Might have been a low blow. What can Jensen say, he’s pissed and damnit, Jared’s acting like a petulant teenager!

“Oh fuck you!” his partner yells – so very mature. The slam of the door and the sound of Jared stomping back downstairs – he better be cleaning up his mess, or Jensen’s going to tear him a new one! – nearly covers Jensen’s return of, “Fuck you too!”

Well that went swimmingly.

Jensen tears off his glasses, letting them clatter to the table. Groaning at the ceiling does very little to actually help the situation, but it does at least make him feel better. A little, anyway.

He hates fighting with Jared, hates that they can get under one another’s skin like this. But then who’s he kidding, they pretty much live under each other’s skin like this. Not the angry part, that’s fairly unusual for them nowadays – and damn Danneel Harris for this un-lovely flashback to Jensen’s early twenties – but the rest of it; knowing which buttons to push and then slamming the hell out of them. Yeah, that’s just part of the deal; the whole best-friend-almost-brother-occasional-lover thing. They know each other too well, live and breathe each other too much in this probably-creepy way that shouldn’t work but does.

Downstairs, pots clatter, which means Jared’s either cleaning up or making an even bigger mess. Jensen almost laughs at the aptness of that, but that part of him that seems biologically linked to Jared hurts too much at the moment to manage it.

Instead, he clicks off the desk lamp and listens to Jared knock around in the kitchen in the dark. It’s a long time before he manages to find sleep.

***

The first time Jensen realizes he's in love with Jared, he's laid out naked on the stainless steel countertop of the restaurant's kitchen. They've just signed the lease, which means it's officially theirs, all theirs - which, in turn, means incredible amounts of debt and tequila.

The place is kind of a wreck. Whoever had it last did a shitty job of taking care of it, but it's also pretty much all they can afford, given the shockingly meager loans they qualify for, even with their families pitching in. The ceiling is grease-stained above the flattop and the stove, which needs to be scrubbed to pass fire inspection. Jensen's pretty sure they'll have to put out rat poison too before the place even approaches livable and then his brain is a sizzling, charred briquette laying at the back of his skull because anyone who can think about anything at all when Jared does that with his tongue deserves to be force-fed rat poison. Jared has the single most talented mouth in the history of humanity. Jensen is so fucking lucky to have him as a best friend.

Jared's got Jensen's cock shoved all the way - all the fucking way - down his throat, nose buried in the short, meticulously-groomed hair at the base. His hands are tugging Jensen up against his mouth even harder so that his ass is hanging all the way off of the counter, and Jared's just fucking feeding on him like Jensen's his last meal in life. Jared is nothing if not enthusiastic.

Jensen looks down the line of his body at the best friend he's ever had, the greatest guy he's ever known - his buddy, his business partner, his soon-to-be roommate - and Jared looks right back up at him. Orgasm hits Jensen like a bolt from the blue, completely unexpected and utterly heart-stopping. If Jensen ever knew how to breathe, he doesn't remember now.

It might be hours or days before he comes down enough to feel how hard the counter underneath him is, how the body-warm metal sticks to his sweaty skin, the long line of heat against him where Jared's curled up at his side and the itchy patch of drying come where Jared obviously wiped his own release on Jensen's stomach after finishing himself off. Jensen did kind of flake out on him there, so he can't really be upset.

It was just so unexpected, so... so much. Sure the head was good - fucking incredible; Jesus H. Christ, Jared's amazing at that - but that wasn't what did it. It was looking into Jared's eyes, like the worst kind of sappy gay romance novel - not that Jensen reads those. He didn't come because of the pressure of Jared's lips, or slick glide of his tongue or the tight trap of his throat; he didn't come because of the booze, or the endorphin rush from signing the lease, or because it's stupidly hot to get sucked off in the kitchen of his own damn restaurant. He came because it was Jared, Jared who knows every weird little secret Jensen’s got and has never judged him for it, never liked him any less. Jared who met him at the airport every single time he visited home during college with this look in his eyes like Jensen was the second coming stepping off that plane, who followed him halfway across the country to open a restaurant in a city where half of all new restaurants fail in the first year. Jared, who's closer to him than any other human being could ever hope to become, and all of a sudden he gets it without question.

This is what love is.

***

The flight down to Texas for Christmas is awkward. As. Fuck. Jensen’s never been a particularly easy flier despite all the practice he’s had over the years and this time he doesn’t have Jared next to him rattling off every random thing that floats through his brain to keep Jensen distracted. Not that Jared isn’t next to him – they bought these tickets months ago when they were still merely outrageously priced instead of sell-an-organ expensive and there’s not an open seat anywhere for them to switch around to. Besides, switching seats would be like admitting their fighting, and heaven forbid that Jared ever acknowledge something’s bothering him when they’re not in the heat of the moment.

Jensen doesn’t even really understand what the big deal is anyway. Sure, Danneel wanting Jared to downplay his style is a pretty stupid demand, but it’s not like she’s asking him to commit pagan blood sacrifices or something. Jared is actually capable of dressing like a reasonably normal human being – Jensen has, in fact, forced him to do so several times over the years. True, not since they broke up, mainly because he thought that might be part of the reason they broke up, but… yeah, whole other can of worms he doesn’t even want to think about.

Anyway, Jared’s absolutely capable of doing it, he’s just being a stubborn ass, and if he really doesn’t want to, he’s also completely capable of brushing it off. Jared can have a temper alright, but he’s usually pretty mellow, all things considered. Jensen’s seen him shake off things before that even made Jensen’s blood boil in vicarious rage; just laugh it off like it’s nothing. But oh no, now that it might have an actual effect on their careers and futures, _now_ he has to be a pissy little bitch-boy.

Fine, the truth is, this sucks. All of it, every single minute of the not-looking, not-talking, not-dealing sucks. Jensen’s entirely too self-aware to deny that they’re frighteningly reliant on one another and not having Jay around – especially this time of year; Jared’s all-time favorite holiday – leaves him feeling off balance.

He’s used to waking up at his parents’ house a couple of days before Christmas with his best friend bouncing around in the kitchen talking to his mom and trying to steal an early slice of her famous holiday sheet cake. He’s used to Jared poking around under the tree to scout out how many presents each of them got and trying to guess what they might be from the sizes and shapes and the wrapping paper color – hand to God, Jared has a whole convoluted theory about the subconscious choices people make in wrapping their gifts in relation to what each of the gifts are. Jensen gets to hear the whole rundown every year, but not this year.

 _This year_ when he stumbles downstairs and does the caffeine-zombie shuffle into the kitchen, all that’s waiting for him is his mother and her ‘What did you do?’ eyes.

Jensen ignores her glare for the length of time it takes him to get through one lukewarm cup of coffee before finally giving in and grumbling, “What?”

“Jensen Ross,” is apparently all his mother has to say to make him spontaneously de-age twenty years.

“Momma, I’m fine, I swear.” It’s a really craptastic lie, and she’s going to see through it in about two seconds flat – because she’s his mother and that’s her superpower – but he’s been holding the party line since he walked in the door last night and she started interrogating him, so now’s not the time to cave.

“You are not.”

“I am _so_.”

“Lift up your shirt.”

“I-“ Jensen’s already whining before his brain stutters through that last exchange. _What?_

“Lift up your shirt,” she repeats, closing the distance between them and flipping up the end of his worn out, oversized – because it’s Jared’s – sleep-shirt.

“See that?” her finger tickles at his belly button and he squirms away automatically, “You know where that comes from? That comes from nine months of me carrying you around inside me, little boy, and as long as you have that, it’s my God-given right to pester you into taking care of yourself. Even when you won’t admit something’s wrong.”

“He’s the one who’s-”

“Make it right, Jensen,” she sighs, eyes rolling to the ceiling, “I don’t care which one of you did it or what you did, but I am not about to let you ruin Christmas for the whole family, moping around here like somebody kicked your puppy because your best friend won’t play with you anymore.”

One of her hands, soft and smelling faintly of the honey-lemon moisturizer she keeps by the sink, settles on the side of his face while the other subtly extricates the coffee mug from his hands. “Be the bigger man, babydoll. Make it right.”

Jensen sighs and shuffles and eyes the coffee pot again which tragically prompts his mother to pour the remainder of it down the sink and then, finally, gives in, grumbling the whole way back up the stairs to hunt through his bags and see if he still has that number for the shelter.

***

Jensen stumbles more than walks in the front door of the Padalecki's house, the giant sack full of presents his mother had sent over catching the leg of the front hall table and nearly taking them both down.

"Jensen!" Sherri's voice cuts in from behind him, her deft hands sweeping up the handles of his bag and untangling it from the table, "Merry Christmas, sweetheart!” she pecks him on the cheek, “Come on in, take off your coat." She's already swooping into the living room as she speaks, kicking a path through the mountains of demolished wrapping paper - and people wonder where Jared gets his limitless energy.

A chorus of, "Jensen!" and, "Merry Christmas!" pave the way for him as he walks in, followed by a hot-cocoa-full mouthed, "mmm!" from Megan as she rushes to stand up. Too late, though, because Jared's official present-opening base of operations is strategically located nearest the door, which means he beats his little sister to the punch every single year to kiss Jensen underneath the mistletoe hanging over the door.

Megan groans and Jared smirks against Jensen's lips, grinning with only the faintest hint of hesitation when he pulls back. It’s the first time Jared’s really smiled at him in a week, even if there is that hint of unsteadiness behind his eyes. Jensen can only assume Jared’s been catching the same kind of flack from Sherri that he’s been getting from his own mother. Whatever the reason, he’s glad for the truce, even if it is a little forced. Maybe his present will make the difference. He really hopes so – otherwise he’s going to be stuck with it.

At some point during the couple of days it’s been since they flew in together, Jared apparently re-dyed his streaks to match the occasion - bright green tracing one side of his face, while the other is outlined in fire-engine red. Jensen can't help but laugh and tousle the bed-messy mop of it as he gladly accepts the mimosa Jared's father proffers. It's pretty fantastic that Jared's family doesn't stand by that 'no drinking before noon' rule on Christmas; Jensen continues to hold out hope that his parents will one day adopt the policy.

Jared's mother is already passing out the presents Jensen brought, each one getting the patented Padalecki-shake from its respective owner - this is why none of them ever gets breakable gifts. When the bag is empty, Sherri surreptitiously begins shoving used paper into it as a trash sack, but Jensen catches the badly-suppressed smile playing around her lips.

"Hey!" Jared pokes him bruisingly in the side - him and his stupid, bony fingers. His bottom lip is stuck out comically far, scowling at Jensen over the obvious lack of presents in his hand. Jensen is not going to laugh and give it all away, but the vicarious, grudging delight bubbling in his chest would really like to.

He fishes the tiny box out of his jacket pocket, placing it in the palm of Jared’s hand, which only serves to make it look even tinier. Jared frowns at it suspiciously, turns it over in his hand, shakes it to listen to the muffled thump of metal inside.

"It's time sensitive, ok, so get a move on," Jensen urges, laudably restraining himself from bouncing on the balls of his feet. He's probably going to regret this one day in the near future, but right now the excitement is killing him.

"It's not going to blow up is it?" Jared asks, holding the little package farther out from his body, "'Cause it would be really shi- um, crappy to blow my whole family up on Christmas day. Especially since you're here, so you'd blow up too."

"It's not going to blow up!" Jensen groans - every other present on the planet Jared rips into without a second thought, and _this one_ he decides to be a wise ass about? "Just open it already!"

Jared huffs, "Fine," and starts peeling away the bright – green, which, according to Jared, is the traditional color for ‘unexpected’ gifts - paper to reveal the small box inside. He lifts the lid and stares.

And stares.

And stares.

And then, at last, reaches in and picks up the little steel disk inside, holding it up to the light to read the inscription.

"Sadie?" he reads with obvious confusion, turning the tag over to scan their address on the back. Jensen can see the moment Jared gets it, his eyes going wide, lips parting slightly in surprise. In the background Sherri's grinning like a maniac, giving Jensen a thumbs-up while Gerry smiles at her indulgently.

"You didn't. You said I couldn't..." Jared mumbles hollowly.

"What?!" Megan and Jeff wail in exasperated unison. Everyone's watching now.

The jangle of his truck keys seems loud in the silence as Jensen drags them out of his pocket, holding them out for Jared to take. Like that breaks whatever spell Jared was under, he quits gawking and snatches the keys, off like a shot and out the front door, his mother's cries of "Shoes, Jared! Shoes!" going completely unheeded. Jensen runs after him to watch, laughing softy to himself.

The dog’s head pops up from where she must have been napping on the seat as soon as Jared slots the key into the door, and Jared makes a yip so high that it actually startles her back. She still comes to him when he flings the door open though, tentatively sniffing at his hand at first and then allowing herself to be gathered into Jared's arms.

She's a rescue dog - just like Jared wanted - so she's not exactly a puppy, but she's not full grown yet either and seems even smaller in Jared's embrace. He's smiling so big his face must be hurting and Jensen has to reflect it right back, because Jared's smile is just infectious that way.

"Mac's never going to forgive you, by the way, she fell in love with that thing," he warns, words turning to steam in the cold morning air.

Jared completely ignores him and opts for, "I love you!" instead.

Jensen smiles back a soft, "Merry Christmas, Jay," before he's practically bowled over by Megan as she rushes to see the dog too.

It takes less than a minute before that poor puppy is surrounded in a knot of cooing, baby-talking Padalecki's, Sherri and Jeff getting in on the game. Sherri produces a couple of chew toys she'd hidden somewhere when Jensen had told her what he was planning a couple of weeks ago and had evidently failed to return after Jensen had decided to call the whole thing off after the fight. Sometimes he wonders why their mothers bother letting them have their own lives since they evidently know exactly what he and Jared are going to do even before they do it.

"And I am not walking it or buying it food or picking up dog poop, Jared. It's your dog!" Jensen shouts over the giggling to no avail. He’d have to grow floppy ears and a tail to garner much attention at the moment.

Gerry hangs back and claps Jensen on the shoulder, handing over the mimosa he'd left sitting on the coffee table during the excitement. Jensen smiles at him and Jared’s father chuckles back wryly. Their glasses clink together in a silent toast as they settle in to watch the havoc Jensen has wrought.

***

“Hey, Jensen.”

“Hello, Danneel.” _Shoot me now. Please not another menu change._

“So I’ve been thinking about the seating.”

 _Oh thank God._

“Mmm-hmm?”

“I’m just thinking that maybe going straight into the seated menu might be a little impersonal, you know? It doesn’t really give the guests a chance to mingle.”

“Isn’t the festival holding a, like, two hour cocktail party beforehand?” _Go ahead and take the question mark off of that, insane lady. I know they are; it’s why I had to go lighter on the first two courses because everyone’s going to be filling up on fucking cheese and olives._

“Well, yeah, but that’s for just _anybody_. This party is not just _anybody_ , Jensen. The guests deserve to be able to mingle with each other without all of the hangers on involved.”

 _Do not sigh audibly, no matter how tempting it is._ “Ok, so what were you thinking?”

“I was just thinking, wouldn’t it be better to offer a couple of cocktails before the dinner. Some champagne, a few nibbles, you know what I mean, puddin’ pop. That wouldn’t be too hard to throw together, would it?”

 _No, of course not. It just means I have to re-coordinate with the wine people to get the champagne, come up with some extra hors d’oeuvres, possibly rework the first course, again, fight with Jared about reworking the first course, again, figure out how to prevent everyone from getting too full to enjoy the mains, not to mention the dessert, oh yeah, and develop a magical ability to predict the amount of time you pretentious douchebags will want to spend snacking while my gourmet meal passes prime temp. Perfect. No problem at all. Keep referring to me as food items and I’m going to shove them down your throat._

“We should be able to do something with that. Maybe serve the amuse as a starter or something?”

“Great, perfect, sounds wonderful, sweet pea. I won’t step on your toes, do whatever you want. It’s your meal. Smooches! Buh-bye!”

 _Fuck my life._

***

The first time Jensen realizes it’s maybe more than platonic love that he feels for Jared, he's twenty-five and standing in the doorway of his own damn kitchen.

It's more of a shock than anything else, because it's totally illogical; he knows Jared's been with other people, has heard them through his ceiling on more than one occasion, has met and passed judgment on anyone who made it past a one night stand - a short list - hell, he's even liked some of them. So it makes absolutely no sense whatsoever that this is the moment that the rocket-hot sear of jealousy pummels him.

For a second he tries to convince himself that it's not about Jared at all, the he's actually jealous over Misha - not unreasonable, considering he'd just slept with the man a couple of months back - but the very idea falls flat. It's not their pastry chef he can't take his eyes off of; it's not Misha's sweat-damp hair he wants to tangle his fingers in, not Misha's mouth he wants to plunder and claim.

There's really no advance planning to it when he grabs the industrial-sized bottle of soap off of the edge of the sink - 'don't worry, Jensen, we'll clean up down here, you go grab a shower', _fucking lying bastards!_ \- and chucks it with all of his might at Jared's back. It's not one of Jensen's finer moments.

"Shit! What the-" Jared's yelps, jumping to turn around, except he can't because he's still buried to the hilt in fucking Misha Collins' fucking ass! His expression would be priceless if Jensen wasn't busy trying to quell his irrational, homicidal rage. At least he's reining in the completely absurd urge to punch things. Like Misha's face.

"It's not what it looks like," is the first thing Jared blurts, eyes wide like he's six and caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Jensen blinks at him because his brain honestly shuts down from the sheer ludicrousness of that statement. Instead, he lets his eyes speak for him, slipping away from Jared's flushed face, down the charcoal grey t-shirt - he's fairly certain there used to be something printed on it but it's been washed too many times to tell - that clings to his chest with sweat both from working the line and, apparently, _'working the line'_. His gaze skims across the bare cut of Jared's hip, the half-exposed swell of his ass where his undone pants hang loosely and over to the dark shadow of hair pressed against the curve of Misha's backside.

The pastry chef is still bent over the counter, braced up now on his elbows as he, too, looks skeptically at Jared. See, even Misha agrees!

Jared glances back and forth between them and finally slumps with a sigh. "Ok, fine, it's exactly what it looks like. But- but you did it too!" He points at Jensen, again going to turn and again realizing that he's still technically fucking Misha _right this very second._

There are a lot of things Jensen could say to that; 'That's not a good reason' is tempting, as is 'It was different' but not nearly so much as 'Fucking pull out, you jack ass!'. Ultimately he decides, "Not in the kitchen!" is the least hypocritical answer, so that's what he hurls back.

Misha props his chin on a hand and just watches from his slightly awkward angle, seemingly not at all perturbed to have been caught having sex with his boss, at work, by his other boss/former one night stand. This is why Jensen realized he could never date Misha.

"If I could make a suggestion," he starts, and Jensen knows exactly where this is going which is both 'no,' and, 'oh _hell_ no'. The man had been none too subtle about his enthusiasm toward the idea of having both him and Jared at once – he privately believes that temptation is at least half the reason Misha took the job in the first place.

"Don't even think about it," Jensen growls at him, which would probably be more than a little unfair if he didn't have a sneaking suspicion that Misha was hoping to get caught all along. The pastry chef huffs and wiggles his ass a little against Jared's hips, dragging a too-high squeak out of the taller man.

There's a low-grade throb building behind Jensen's eyebrows, perfect counterpoint to the way his stomach is churning. Fuck, he needs an antacid and a beer. And maybe some vodka.

"Just- just take it upstairs, ok?" he sighs, hiding his eyes in the relative calm of his own palm. Also, he doesn't really need the images that go along with the sounds that are now embedding themselves permanently in his brain; with quiet squelch and the huff of Jared pulling out - about damn time - tucking himself in, the zip of Misha getting his own pants back up, somebody's feet on the stairs.

He can feel Jared lingering beside him, just a few inches away, but Jensen doesn't particularly want to look at him right now, more because of his own reaction to what he just saw than anything Jared actually did.

"Are you pissed?" a voice too small to be his best friend's asks, and something inside of Jensen's chest cracks like spun sugar.

"Nothing I haven't done," isn't exactly an answer, but at least it's not a lie. He's not pissed at Jared, not really, though it would be easier. He's pissed because he's supposed to be able to take control of these feelings, and he's failing miserably. He's never done well with failure.

There's a sound like Jared opening his mouth to say something else, but it never comes.

"I'll be done down here in an hour," Jensen breaks the silence, sounding a little less detached than he'd like. "Either be done or be quiet by then. I don't wanna hear your bed moving across the floor." He twists his mouth up into something approximating a smile at the last and lets his hand fall away from his face.

Jared's expression is caught somewhere between a dozen different emotions, but he takes the cue for what it is and smiles back, "Again."

"Again," Jensen agrees and claps him once on the back, the heat of Jared’s body tingling through him long after he’s severed the contact. His friend still looks at him a little too softly, but after another moment he turns to head up the stairs - he has company waiting, after all.

Jensen almost doesn't hear the "Love you," that whispers back down the stairs, except for how he feels it down to his marrow. He doesn't know if Jared's already gone by the time he returns it, but he does anyway. He spends a long, long time staring blindly at the mess of Jared's station before he actually starts to clean up.

***

Jensen's hand slides through the sheen of sweat up Jared's right side; over the four little blue stars - each about the size of a dime - that mark Jared's family permanently on his skin and up to the matching one laying to the side of Jared's nipple like a punctuation mark. Jensen's star. His thumb presses firmly into it for a moment, the skin around the digit blanching white then back to honey-tan as Jensen skates the finger over a pebbled nipple instead.

Above him Jared hisses in a breath, loses it in pieces as he works his hips mercilessly against Jensen's. It's slow and deep, an ocean-steady roll, but that doesn't make it gentle. Every push is just this side of punishing, like Jared's trying to get further inside with nothing but the force of his will and the strength of his thighs.

On the street outside, there’s the roar of tires through the slushy remnants of snow, and over that, the sounds of music and boisterous drunks from the bar across the way.

Jared’s hands still smell faintly of onions, the scent of cooked meat and char from the grill station mingling with the sweat dampening his hair. They could have, probably _should_ have, showered, but their last four-top hadn’t left until half past eleven and then with getting the rest of the crew out of the way, they’d already been tight on time, even with leaving all the cleanup for tomorrow morning. A dirty kitchen isn’t at the top of Jensen’s list of the best ways to start a new year, but then again, neither is cleaning up said kitchen when he could be getting nailed to the mattress by Jared’s dick. Besides, you don’t give up a long standing tradition like this over a few dirty dishes.

Jared’s cock slams his already abused prostate, white-hot sparks flaring at the base of his spine with so much force that he’d arch up with it if Jared wasn’t collapsing on top of him to press them both down. Muggy and hot, Jensen’s name is repeated by Jared’s sexed-up rasp over and over into the delicate skin of his neck, pausing occasionally to suck another purple bloom to the surface. Jensen just cups his hand around the back of his friend’s head and urges him on.

It’s so good like this, always so good; even the times when it was all falling down around them, when they could barely make ends meet or keep from screaming at each other during the course of the day, this was always right. The feel of Jared over him, inside of him, everywhere; a solid, unshakeable presence, connected in a way that he knew instinctually that neither of them could ever be with someone else.

Sometimes it scares the hell out of him, these moments when Jared’s everything and he’s everything for Jared. Sometimes it’s so intense it feels like Jared’s the only thing keeping him grounded, alive, like he’d just drift away if it weren’t for this man, and it’s utterly terrifying. At the same time, though, he lives on it; that razors edge between too much and not enough. He’s never understood people who go sky diving or bungee jumping for a thrill, but there are times like now when he thinks he’s more hardcore than any of them because this is more than just his safety on the line, it’s all that he is, laid out raw, right this second. Sometimes he thinks he could live like this forever.

Outside a haphazard chorus of a few overzealous partiers starts the countdown early, kicking up a scattershot ’20, 19,… 17’. Jared worms his hands under Jensen’s back, wraps him up in something like a bear hug and just lays into him; relentless, marrow-deep thrusts and rough, punched out breaths shunting over his ear.

Jensen can barely hear the muffled voices hit ‘10’ over the throb of blood in his ears and his own moans of “Yeah, Jay, Jared, yes.” His free hand grips the meat of Jared’s ass brutally, pushing with every flex as if either of them have any more to give. He’s drowning in the feel of it, sweet and content and yet still desperate and steamed up from the inside out, overflowing with how perfect it feels.

“3, 2, 1!”

They don’t come as a few barflies rush out into the street to yell “Happy New Year,” at the Manhattan sky, although that’s always been the plan, the fantasy – the year they were dating Jared made him practice for a week straight to get the timing right, but it’s never worked out like that. They do kiss, mouths meeting feverish and already slick from sweat and swipes of each other’s tongues. Time fails in it, disappearing under the swelter they're creating with the friction of their bodies.

That fire ant itch is building at the base of his spine, cock trapped, thick and needy between their slippery bellies, jumping in time to the metronome-perfect taps of Jared’s cockhead on his prostate. His fingernails are digging too hard into the rippling, night-kissed muscle of Jared’s back, but his friend groans for it like it’s the best feeling in the world. The need is swelling in him, filling up every crevice like air in a balloon, and it feels like he’s going to pop just like one too, explode and shatter into a million disparate pieces. But Jared’s there, holding him together, keeping him safe, and it’s Jay’s rabbitting heartbeat pounding in counterpoint to his own as much as the heavy cock inside of him that makes him lose it.

Jared never lasts more than a thrust or two after that, muscles locking up, arms so tight around Jensen there's a whole other reason why he can't breathe. The only movement is the muted pulse as Jared fills him, slick come spilling into the equal heat of his body. Perfect.

Jared's the only person he's ever gone bare with, quite possibly the only one he ever will considering his relationship history. It's part of an agreement they have; they only do it like this with one another and if one of them ever actually gets deep enough into a relationship to want to take that step with someone else, they have to inform the other. He's all too aware of the level of creepy codependence implied in getting Jared's permission about his own sex life, but he seriously doubts it will ever be an issue - the last time he went on more than two dates with anyone was before he and Jared had their official fling and, hell, the last time he went on a date period was... God, he doesn't even want to think about it. Realistically, Jared is who he is to Jensen and anyone who could accept spending the rest of their lives as second string in Jensen's affections probably wouldn’t be the kind of person he’d want to spend his life with anyway.

Jared slips out of him, so smooth it's almost jarring, making them both gasp. He fumbles around at the bedside table and finally finds what he's looking for - a bottle of the cheapest champagne they could get their hands on, just like that first New Years in New York when it was the best they could afford. Jared shakes it viciously, doesn't give Jensen a chance to do anything to stop him before he's popping the cork. Every fucking year. The liquid is cold, a foaming shock on his skin - and the bed and the pillows - that Jared quickly follows with his tongue, sucking it up out of the hollow of Jensen's throat.

For all the bitching Jared does about Jensen being anal retentive and overplanning things, the man takes this stuff seriously. Not their work, not the job that could make or break their careers, but these stupid homemade traditions; he'll spend hours getting them just right. With the mouthful of cheap, too-sweet wine passing from the bottle, to Jared's mouth, to Jensen's on a lazy, bubble-foamed kiss, he can't even pretend he doesn't love that about Jay.

Downstairs, Sadie lets out a mournful howl, maybe scared by the pop of the champagne or the raucous sounds outside. Jared makes a pitiful noise in turn and shouts down, “It’s okay baby, you’re safe.” She doesn’t make any more fuss – under a week, and Jared’s already got her trained; that man’s a freaking dog whisperer - probably settled down on one of the two dog beds Jared had set up in Jensen’s place – two, because that’s where Jensen drew the line; she’s not his dog, and the three beds scattered around Jared’s apartment for her is already overkill, she’s just one dog. Jensen gives it ten minutes before Jared can’t stand it anymore and has to go down and get her.

The bottle thunks heavily as Jared sets it on the floor, then occupying himself with the last step of their self-enforced ritual. The red eye of the camera timer winks at them as Jared pushes the button, stopping for a second to grin down at Jensen.

"Happy New Year," he says, voice still a little strung out, the liquor still wet around his mouth and chin catching in the light from outside.

"Happy New Year," Jensen returns, threading his fingers into Jared's sweaty hair to pull him into another kiss. Jared's lips part for him automatically, tongues meeting with that barely-there 'mm', just like every other kiss they've ever shared. He catches the camera's flash from behind his eyelids but is too wrapped up in the way Jared's body feels against him to pay much attention.

The remnants of champagne on his chest are quickly turning sticky, his scalp itching as the sweat there starts to dry, his body a strange mix of too cold and too hot from all of the places Jared's not shielding him from the chilly winter air and all of the places where their contact is trapping his body heat. The bed is wet, the sheets all but a lost cause, and he's so exhausted all he wants to do is roll over and sleep for a week. Jared makes another little 'mm' and licks at Jensen's lip like it's something that is absolutely essential to have in his mouth.

Another year, and there's nowhere else he'd rather be.


	3. Chapter 3

“Jensen!”

 _If you make me change the menu again I’m going to throw myself off the roof._

“Hi Danneel.”

“So, listen, I was thinking.”

 _That always turns out well._

“What about?”

“About Jared actually. I was a little, shall we say surprised when I came into the restaurant last night. I thought we’d talked about this.”

 _Things I would rather do than having this conversation: stick my hand in a blender, superglue my face to the side of a moving bus, clean the greasetraps with my tongue…_

“He’s going to tone it down a little for the event.” _Probably, not that I’ve brought it up him again, yet._

“Well, I should hope so. Still, I couldn’t help but notice you have a lot of other staff around, there’s no reason it has to be Jared that comes out with you. That other guy seemed cute enough, needs a haircut, but at least he doesn’t look homeless. Or the tiny little girl, she’s adorable, plus very PC to have a female sous with you-“

“Jared’s my partner.” _Bitch._

“Yes, I know sweetheart, but he does himself up like a reject from a Dave Navarro video or something and if you’re not going to do anything about it-“

“What he looks like doesn’t affect the way he cooks. He’s a genius.”

“So was Einstein, but I wouldn’t want to think about him touching my food either. Look, honey pot, I’m not saying don’t cook with him or don’t have him there, I’m just saying don’t flaunt him around in front of everybody. You’re trying to be Eric Ripert here, Jensen, and all he’s doing is making us both look bad. Clean him up or he’s not talking to my guests, understand?”

“Danneel-“

“Good, I’m glad we’re on the same page. Take care, sugar.”

 _What the hell am I going to do?_

***

The first time Jensen realizes that this thing between them really works, he’s two weeks shy of his twenty-sixth birthday, lying in bed with his boyfriend, and the ticklish patterns Jared’s sketching all over his sweat-sticky back with a fingertip are the only thing keeping him from falling back into another nap.

“We should get a dog,” Jared whispers, maybe hoping Jensen won’t hear it.

“No,” is his immediate answer, all mixed up in a grunt as he shifts his legs into a more comfortable position.

They’ve been dating for a couple of months now – officially dating, not just everybody assuming they’re dating – which means that Jared’s made it about six weeks longer than Jensen had been betting he would before pushing the issue. He’ll give Jared credit for that, but the last thing that they need right now is another responsibility – especially a responsibility that would be hanging around the house, watching with sad, confused eyes every time Jensen wants to bang his boyfriend.

Jared’s whine of, “But Jensen…” vibrates against his skin, a precursor to the line of dirty little kisses Jared paints up the nape of his neck. No one ever accused Jared of playing fair.

“No.” He stands firm, despite the riot of goosebumps breaking out all over his skin. Damn Jared for knowing all of his hot spots.

“But it’ll be like our baby.” Jared nips along his jaw, up the curve of his ear to breathe out soft and hot. It sends a shiver rolling down Jensen’s spine and he may have just gotten off a few minutes ago, but his dick is giving some serious thought to getting interested again. Traitor.

“Who needs a baby when I’ve got you around?” Jensen counters, voice only slightly shaky from the way Jared flat out refuses to leave his ears alone. Sometimes it’s a pain in the ass being so sensitive.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jared scoots over a little farther so he’s straddling Jensen’s hips, wet trails smearing over the outside of Jensen’s thighs where his come is still leaking out of Jared, hot and obscene. The quiet groan Jensen loses at the possessive warmth low in his belly mostly gets swallowed by the pillow.

“It means that most days I’m surprised that you manage to tie your own shoes,” he fires back after too long a pause, mildly impressed that he remembered what they were talking about with Jared rubbing up against him like he’s going into heat. He earns himself a sharp bite to the shoulder for his trouble.

“What, you’re afraid of committing to me?” Jared pouts. The way his fingers lace automatically with Jensen’s contradicts the frown Jensen can feel against his skin.

“Dude, we’ve been attached at the hip for like ten years” – he takes a moment to admire the complete appropriateness of the metaphor as Jared’s hips roll against the swell of his ass – “I live with you, I own a business with you, welcome to commitment. Still doesn’t mean we’re getting a dog.”

“But why?” Jared’s lips capturing his own prevents Jensen from answering – he has no delusions about that being a coincidence, but it also feels really good, so he elects to let his boyfriend get away with it for now.

“Because I said so,” he slurs around Jared’s tongue, sucking it into his mouth so that Jared’s “You’re not the boss of me,” gets all chopped to pieces.

“How about this,” he argues, tugging Jared down and around until they’re facing one another, “Six month anniversary, we’ll talk about it, ok? Then we’ll have all the summer rush out of the way, and we can really devote some time to it – if we get a dog, which I’m not saying we will.”

Jared grins like he just won the point anyway, and in the privacy of his own mind, Jensen can admit that he probably did. On the plus side, semi-losing means that they can quit talking and get back to those lazy touches and that languid making out under the muted warmth of the afternoon sun streaming in the window. It always makes Jensen feel decadent and luxurious, like he’s getting away with something. He could spend pretty much the rest of forever just like this.

***

It’s amazing, epic, and Jensen’s not sure whether it would be more discreet to faint from hyperventilation or just pee his pants. Jared’s hand is a firm, steady weight on his shoulder, beaming grin a constant source of attention from the people passing by. The notice might also have something to do with the fact that he’s a head taller than almost everyone else and has a tiny rainbow layered onto the tips of his hair all the way around.

So much for subtle.

The ‘Polite As Fuck’ shirt probably isn’t going to do him any favors either, but that’ll be covered by the whites anyway. As long as he can get Jared to put on a bandana and ditch the jewelry when they go out to talk to the guests after service, that should be enough for Danneel, right? Sure, she’s got this weird obsession with how Jared looks, but honestly, looking around at all of the mingling people, Jared really doesn’t look out of place. Hell, there’s a girl over there from Blue Hill with enough piercings to lose half of her face if she ever walked in front of a magnet. There’s no way Danneel can possibly single Jared out after seeing everybody else here. And with his hair covered and his whites on, everything should be fine. It’s all going to be fine. So why the hell can’t Jensen breathe?

They’re not rookies, objectively he knows this; they’ve had their place longer than some of the big names around here. But it’s still the first big rodeo, and if they screw it up, they might never get invited back.

“Ok,” he claps his hands together, turning to the crew, who all have the same indelible excitement written across their faces as Jared does. Good. Maybe Jensen’s the only one whose insides have developed a sudden yearning to become his outsides. “Go have fun; do your thing, but be at the venue in two hours, got it? Everybody knows how to get there? Should I go over the directions one more time?”

“Relax, _mom_ , we got it,” Sandy winks.

“And if you try to write the address on my hand again, I’ll deck you,” Chris adds, tipping his Stetson forward against the early morning sun. Jensen has absolutely no doubt about his sincerity.

Jared holds up his palm with step by step directions written on it in permanent ink – bless that man for always having a Sharpie – and Misha… is already chatting up the guy from Dickson’s Farmstand Meats. Of course, because he works with meat, and who’s Misha to ignore a good pun?

Jensen lets his hands fall to his sides with a sigh that the rest of the group seems to take as permission to disperse. Chris and Sandy disappear into the throng as Jared slings an arm around Jensen’s shoulders and starts dragging him into the fray as well.

“So, we’ve got a couple of hours to kill,” Jared’s beaming, positively beaming, and Jensen would really like to ignore the fact that that makes some of the knots in his gut untie themselves, but he can’t, “What’s your pleasure, Jen?”

“Um, well,” Jensen digs the file folder with the events schedule out of his messenger bag, “There’s a panel discussion starting soon about defining what local really means in locavore cuisine.”

Jared stares blankly at him, maneuvering them seamlessly through the crowds of people on the sidewalk. There’s a hitch at the corner of his mouth like he’s trying to keep from smiling, one dimple flirting with the idea of showing itself.

“Ok, your vote has been revoked. Ming Tsai is doing a demo and there’s going to be samples. We go!”

He laces his fingers with Jensen’s and starts tugging him through the crowd, smiling and waving along the way at people Jensen’s not even sure Jared knows. He looks like a kid in a candy store – or hell, a _Jared_ in a candy store, for that matter – grinning and pointing things out and, yes, actually skipping once, even if he swears up and down that he just tripped.

It’s so much better than the times he’s come here before, because this time, they’re actually hosting a dinner; they’re on the radar, and regardless of how Jared’s tried to brush it off before, Jensen can tell by the look in his eyes that his partner feels the difference too.

Out of the blue, halfway through a cross walk, Jared stops and drags Jensen in for one quick, light press of lips. And for that second, with a cab honking at them and people muttering curses as they pass, Jensen’s got Jared, and the Festival, and his whole career right on the edge of truly blossoming. For that second, Jensen owns the damn world.

***

That warm fuzzy feeling lasts about as long as it takes for Danneel Harris to blow in like an ill wind.

They’re getting acquainted with the kitchen they’ll be using for the event, checking out the set-up, looking around the walk in, double checking they’ve got all the product they need even though Jensen has already gone through it all personally, twice. The equipment is nice, all gleaming steel and gas ranges, plenty of room to do what they need to get done. With the upgrades they’ve made over the years, it’s not especially nicer than their kitchen, but it’s a lot roomier, obviously designed for at least twice the staff they’ve brought with them.

That strikes a chord for Jensen. Maybe they don’t have enough staff to pull this off, maybe he should have brought in a couple of pinch hitters just in case. He’s running down the list of everybody he could possibly call in for a favor like this – is it a worse risk to have somebody making the components who’s never done it before or to chance not getting them done on time? – when Jared gathers him into a bone-crushing hug.

“Shh,” he shushes against Jensen’s forehead, “I can hear the crazy happening, now stop. We’re good, we can do this, so whatever you’re thinking that’s making you freak out, knock it off.” He hangs onto Jensen for a minute longer, until Jensen finally relents and forces his muscles to relax. Then Jared lets him go, tapping him on the nose twice, the same way he does when he scolds Sadie. Jensen glares at him but he actually does feel a little better. No need to let Jared know that though.

Everybody’s unpacking, Sandy testing out the sharpness of her knives on the back of a thumbnail, even though she had them professionally honed just for this occasion. It really is nice to have someone on the team who gets it. Misha’s separating eggs, and Chris is pulling out veg for the mise en place and then the service door – the wrong side of it, almost slamming right into Chris’s face – swings open.

Regardless of how Jensen may have felt a couple of hours ago, Danneel Harris looks like she owns the world. Auburn hair, flawless makeup, a blue dress that has to have come right off of some designer rack and a look on her face that might have been a smile if the purpose of a smile was to make your balls try and escape into the relative safety of your intestines. She’s so much less scary over the phone.

“Hi Jensen!” she says, sugar-sweet enough to make his teeth ache. She also manages to completely ignore everyone else in the room, particularly impressive since Jared’s big as a house anyway, and right now he has one of his giant hands on Jensen’s hip. “Can I steal you for one quick second, dumplin’?”  
It’s not really a question, especially with the way she doesn’t wait for an answer, just turns on her four-inch heels and walks back out of the kitchen.

Jensen hesitates for a moment, feet physically incapable of moving with the lead weight of his stomach settled down in them. The crew is utterly silent, staring, eyes only flittering away from Jensen to shoot each other meaningful looks. Jared’s hand tightens on his hip briefly, and finally Jensen makes himself move, refusing to look over his shoulder for whatever expression is written on his partner’s face.

The room where the tables are set up is grand; sleek and modern, with one whole wall of windows looking out onto a spectacular view of the skyline. It’s exactly the sort of place Jensen’s always imagined having a restaurant in, but now it seems too big and open, impersonal, just like the woman awaiting him, pumps tapping out a manic rhythm on the hardwood floor.

“Something you’d like to tell me, Jensen?” He’s never actually hated the sound of his own name before. It’s disconcerting.

He has more than an inkling what this is about, the back of his throat thick with bitter regret that he hadn’t pushed the issue with Jared after that first big blow up. Kept putting it off and putting it off, thinking it would be ok when he knew it couldn’t be. Time to face the music.

“I know that you’re upset, but Jared’s Jared. He’s going to do what he wants to do and I can’t change tha-“

“So what you’re saying is you can’t control your staff?”

“What I’m saying is-“

“Look, Jensen,” she menaces, manicured nails dragging across the bare linen tablecloths with a _shrrrrik_ like Jensen’s life being shredded, “I don’t know what part I’ve been unclear on, but I am not pleased. You really expect me to let _that_ go out there and represent my name? To tell people that that’s the kind of person I think is fit to be preparing my meals. I don’t care if he gives the world’s best blow job, when I’m footing the bill I expect my people to look like professionals, not some felony-waiting-to-happen freaks. Bring the other guy, bring the girl, bring the _pastry_ chef, I don’t give a damn, but if I see his face again, Jensen, we’re going to have a problem.”

He’ll give her this, the woman can turn on a dime, face suddenly bright with a smile that shrinks away from her eyes. She waves at something behind Jensen, who turns just in time to catch a rainbow glimpse of hair disappearing behind the window in the service door. He only keeps from hurling by a show of willpower he didn’t know he had, and the thought that if he pukes out here, some poor server would probably end up having to clean it up.

“Fix it, Jensen,” Danneel snaps, dragging Jensen’s attention back, “I don’t care how, just fix it.”

The clack-clack-clack of her heels follows her out, barely audible over the thundering, panicked beat of Jensen’s own heart.

***

“You can’t take it personally,” Jensen’s saying before he’s even all the way into the kitchen. He’s breathing like he ran a marathon instead of the thirty feet from the dining room to the back. Everyone’s staring at him again – Jensen’s officially over this trend – no one with as much intensity as Jared. It’s mildly miraculous that the metal all around them isn’t melting under the heat in those hazel eyes. “She just says stuff like that, you can’t let it get to you.”

He’s seen Jared shrug off far worse insults than that, from far better people; he can’t begin to imagine why this one seems to be getting to him so much.

"You think I give a shit about what she said?" Jared yells back, the sound echoing off the blank walls.

"Then what the fuck is the problem?" Jensen raises his own voice in answer.

"You! You're the problem! You're supposed to be my fucking friend and you just...” Jared’s fingers slide into his own hair, gripping like he’s tempted to pull it out, “Just nevermind."

Jensen’s almost sure he hears Sandy whisper his name quietly, like a warning, but he talks right over it. "It's just one day! Can't you just pretend for _one day?_ For me?"

“Pretend what?” Jared scoffs, “That there’s nothing wrong with me? Is that what I’m supposed to pretend, Jen?”

“There _isn’t_ anything wrong with you!”

“Then why the fuck didn’t you say that to her?” Jared’s hands slam into his chest hard, knocking him back a handful of steps before Chris grabs onto his shoulders and sets him right. He’s too stunned to react any more than it takes to get both feet under him again. They don’t fight like this, not ever. They’ve hurled harsh, razor-edged words at each other plenty; things hastily said in anger and later forgiven, sometimes more grudgingly than others. They’ve wrestled around and played at fighting, but they’ve never laid a hand on each other in malice and he hasn’t got a clue what to do with even a simple shove from Jared, no prescribed retaliation in the handbook.

For what it’s worth, Jared looks just as stunned by it as Jensen feels. He’s flashing a look from his hands to Jensen and back, like his body acted without his permission. Fish out of water, his mouth forms words, no sound coming out, before his face crumples into this angry, confused rictus that Jensen vaguely remembers from Jared’s teenage years.

Hastily he’s grabbing for his knives, tucking them back into his case, slap-dash, and zipping it up, gaze staying far away from Jensen.

"Where are you going?" Jensen finally manages to croak out as Jared’s heading for the back door.

"Away from here."

"We have a service to put up!"

"Do it without me!” Jared fires back, voice cracking a little at the end so that the rest comes out a mumble of, “Like the whole rest of this cluster fuck."

The door sways closed behind him with a soft squeal, and Jensen finds himself floundering in a world without gravity. He’s going to come back; any second now, he’s going to come back because Jared would never just leave him. Not over this – this stupid, pointless thing.

The door slowly comes to a stop under its own weight. It doesn’t move again.

“Jensen,” Chris says, something in his tone suggesting this isn’t his first attempt at getting Jensen’s attention. The warm spot on Jensen’s arm is a hand, he realizes after a moment; a really small hand, way too small to be Chris’.

“Jensen?” the next call of his name is more tentative, higher pitched, and Jensen at last succeeds in ungluing his eyes from the door to look at Sandy standing beside him. Sandy, of course; Sandy has tiny hands.

Misha’s next to Chris, biting his lip as the three of them exchange glances. For some reason, it hits him exactly then, square on the jaw – Jared’s not coming back.

“What the hell are you all looking at?” he barks because it’s the only way he can be sure he’s not about to choke on his own tongue, “We’ve got people to feed. Now let’s move!”

He pulls away from Sandy’s comforting touch; if he stops right now, even for a second, it’s all going to come unglued and there’s no way he’ll be able to put himself together in time to do the dinner. At the very least, he has to do the dinner, he’s not going to have fucked this all up for nothing.

If it takes him another minute or two to figure out why his cheeks are wet, well, that’s his own fucking business.

***

The first time Jensen realizes that maybe love isn't always enough, he's twenty-six and slumped as deep into Jared's couch as he can get. Jensen takes a hard swig straight from the whiskey bottle. They really need to invest in a higher quality liquor.

"And then he says 'I'm sorry I'll never be the Stepford boy you want,' like all I care about is having this perfect, prissy boyfriend to show off at parties!" he rails swinging the bottle wildly out to the side.

Jared wisely takes it from him - luckily there’s not enough in there to have sloshed out - knocks back a slug of his own and coughs out, "Fucker."

"I'm not like that," Jensen insists, prodding at the couch cushion fervently, "I mean, sure, I like things to be nice, I expect people to act with a certain level of class, but I'm not some pretentious snob."

"Of course you're not. Fuck him!" Jared palms Jensen's shoulder reassuringly, gives him a little shake that makes the whole room try to do a loop-de-loop. "Trust me I get it. My guy was all, 'Jared, you can't wear those jeans again,' and, 'Jared, I'm not taking you out with your hair like that,' and, 'Jared, why can't you just act like a normal person for a change,' and I'm like, hey, man, this is part of the package; you knew what you were signing up for. I seriously thought he was going to throw a plate at me!" He slams back another mouthful, head falling against the back of the sofa. It's like the couch is sucking all of the energy right out of him before Jensen's eyes, his body going progressively more lax, the tightness in his face fading as he stares at the ceiling. There's no resistance when Jensen takes the bottle back and washes away the bitter taste of regret lingering at the back of his throat.

"I wasn't going to throw a plate at you," he says quietly to the fray-edged label on the glass. He can hear the breath slowly fill Jared's lungs, the way it swooshes back out and then in again even more slowly.

"I know," Jared whispers, voice slightly choked, "I'm sorry about the Stepford thing. That was outta line."

Jensen huffs a laugh that turns to sand in his throat. "The truth hurts, right?"

"You're not that bad," Jared argues, a little more energy now that he's defending Jensen and he really would laugh at the ridiculousness of it all if he could manage to do more than struggle to suck in his next drag of air. "I was just pissed."

His chest aches with the admission, "I _am_ that bad, sometimes. I know it." Suddenly there doesn't seem to be nearly enough whiskey left to get through this. Like, in the world.

"Still shouldn't have said it." Jared's hair rasps against the pleather of the couch, the rhythmic shuff of it suggesting that he's shaking his head. Jensen still hasn't been able to make himself look up.

His eyes are stinging, contacts trying to swim around on the surface as he shrugs and wryly chokes out, "If you can't be honest with your boyfriend, then what's the point?"

Jared gently extricates the bottle from the deathgrip Jensen didn't realize he had on it, fingers catch-lingering for a moment. Hesitantly he says in a boyish voice, "I could probably stand to clean up my act a little."

Jensen's protective instincts spring into action before he even has a chance to approve the tirade that slips past his lips.

"Like hell!" he says vehemently, poking at Jared's chest this time instead of the sofa. "I am not about to let you go change who you are to be with some dipshit guy, even if he happens to be me. Like you said, it's all part of the package, and the package is awesome."

Jared's hand claps over where Jensen's finger is trying to bore into his sternum, gentling it and holding it in place all at once.

He swallows heavily, eyes locked somewhere around Jensen's knees. "Just not awesome enough."

It's like the knot that's been trying to close off his airway all this time just bursts, exploding into sharp, hot little shards that flow through his veins like so much broken glass. There's no denying that there are tears welling up when he finally manages to make his voice croak out, "It's not like that and you know it."

Apparently, that's some sort of last straw because Jared grips his hand all the harder, presses it flat against his own chest where he can feel the tempo of Jared's heartbeat. Somehow it seems like it should be irregular or stilted or something, but it's steady as ever, solid and soothing beneath his tee.

"It's supposed to work," Jared says brokenly, the sound seemingly ripped from him, " _We're_ supposed to work."

"I know," is the only answer Jensen's got. "I know."

And he does, God help him, he completely understands. It had seemed inevitable somehow when he and Jared got together, made it official. It was like the most natural thing in the world the way they fell into one another's lives, none of the awkwardness about meeting the family, or going over for holidays, or anything like that because they'd been doing it for years. Belonged together. He's reasonably sure that their mothers have already planned their big gay wedding, and now it's just... it's not supposed to end like this.

Jared curls in on himself, falling forward until his head is resting against Jensen's chest, noisy tears soaking through his shirt. This was supposed to be his forever, his happily ever after. If he can't make it work with Jared, then what the hell hope is he supposed to have with anybody else? How's he even supposed to want anybody else?

He cradles Jared's head against him and rubs a hand up and down his back, tears falling into the silky disarray of Jared's hair. Maybe when they tell everybody else they'll be manly about it, show everyone that it's not the end of the world, that they can still be friends. Nobody needs to know about this, that not being friends wasn't even an option because they don't know how to live without one another, even if they can't make it right. Nobody would understand anyway.

It goes on like that for what seems like hours. Jensen's head is pounding, eyes hot and sore when it's over and one of his contacts is missing. Maybe later he'll work up the energy to look for it - sometime when he hasn't got a Jared blanket covering him from head to toe, both of them laid out on the floor because they don't really fit on the couch like this.

"This is the most fucked up thing we've ever done," Jay whispers after a while, lips ghosting against Jensen's cheek. He's not sure whether Jared means the dating, or the break-up, or the fact that neither of them felt right turning to anyone else for comfort about it. Any which way, it's probably true.

"In a long and storied history of fucked up things," Jensen agrees. He presses a kiss to Jared's temple, gets a hard squeeze around his middle in return.

Jared's "I still love you," is barely audible. Jensen can't tell whether that feeling blooming in his chest is pain or pleasure.

"Like the post office, Jay," he murmurs back, "rain or sleet or really shitty break-ups. Always love you. No matter what."

His friend sobs one more time and finally grumbles, "I need more booze."

"Amen to that, brother."


	4. Chapter 4

The first time Jensen realizes that maybe sometimes love isn't enough, but sometimes it fucking well is, he's twenty-eight years old, checking the temp on his roast in the magnificent kitchen of the hall Danneel Harris has rented out for her party. He realizes it because the back door swings open to reveal Jared in plain black pants, clogs and whites, floppy hair falling over his slightly flushed face.

Floppy brown hair. That's it, just brown. Not brown plus something, just plain old ordinary brown like Jensen hasn't seen it since he was a senior in high school, waiting on his best friend to get out of afternoon detention so they could get to work on time.

 _Normal._

"What happened?" is what sputters out of his mouth, completely of its own volition. It’s a valid question though, so he goes with it, ignoring the annoyed looks he’s getting form some of the servers as they scurry around him to pick up their amuse-bouche.

Jared ducks his head and doesn’t meet Jensen’s eyes when he grumbles, "Don't even start, man. It's just one night, right?"

He starts unpacking his knives with a single-minded dedication, drawing Jensen attention to his hands. No bracelets, no rings, no crazy colors slapped haphazardly on his nails. The collar on his chef’s coat is tugged up too, sitting high enough to mostly cover the Super Mario power-ups tattoo there, only a red and white speckled mushroom showing and even that is covered largely by curls of silky hair. Brown hair. Yeah, he’s not going to be getting over that anytime soon.

If Jensen didn't know any better he'd think Jared was just some ordinary guy. But Jared's not; not even in the same neighborhood as ordinary because he's a hundred thousand times better than that. He’s the guy who’s never let anybody tell him who to be, even the people he loves. He’s the guy who’ll give every last ounce of himself every day and twice on Sundays for something he believes in. He’s the guy who never falters, never wavers, has absolute faith that somehow, it’s all going to be ok, no matter how bleak it seems. He’s the guy who’s probably kept Jensen from going insane long before now. The guy Jensen loves. The guy who came back. And yeah, Jensen's thought a lot over the years about how much easier it would be if Jared just fit in, just went along and compromised a little. Now that it's right in front of him, nothing has ever pissed him off more.

"Jensen?" he hears Jared question as Jensen hoists the roasting pan off of his prep table and makes for the door.

"Jensen?!" more urgently, more than one voice now and Jensen seriously does not even give a fuck.

The way people stare as he bursts into the dining room - everyone still standing around, sipping cocktails and picking at hors d’oeuvres and _throwing off his fucking service schedule_ \- is almost as good as how they part before him like the Red Sea. Not nearly as impressive, though, as how they all gasp and fall silent in the wake of the pan hitting the floor at Danneel fucking Harris' pedicured feet, spatter-painting her champagne-satin gown with dark jus all the way up her legs.

"What the-" she starts out a snarl, pretty, done-up face a mask of shocked fury.

"If you have a problem with my partner, you have a problem with me, understand?” he booms out loud over her, “You hired us to do a job, a hard job, made more so by constantly having to put up with your shit, but we did that. We did everything you asked of us except for this one little thing, and you have the audacity to call _my friend_ a freak because he won't change who he is to fit your idea of what the world ought to be? You had no right. But since we’re so accommodating, we won't sully you with our _unacceptable_ presence any longer. Food's in the oven, princess, hope it treats you well. The freak and I are leaving."

He turns to see the entire kitchen staff standing at the service door along with a handful of servers who look like they’re about to faint. Jensen kind of knows the feeling, but he’s too high on adrenaline for his body to collapse yet, so for the moment he’s just shaking.

Chris, Sandy and Misha all probably have expressions, but right now Jensen’s only got eyes for Jared, who looks caught somewhere between delighted and throwing a shit-fit as Jensen pushes through them into the kitchen. Dimly he can hear the sounds of people all starting to gossip at once and the incredulous shouts of Danneel ordering him back to her. Jensen blithely ignores it. About time he got the last word.

***

Sitting in the back of the van they rented out to haul their supplies, sucking on a bottle of Grand Marnier that was supposed to be part of the mini-soufflés - because they’ve already burned through the bourbon from Chris' flask - might not be a new low for Jensen. Add in the fact that he just essentially wrecked his life's ambition, probably gave grounds for a lawsuit, made himself nigh unhireable in front of a couple dozen members of the industry, and the media, and - cherry on top - took the rest of the crew down with him over - essentially - Jared's hair color and that is definitely a new low. Possibly for humanity at large.

It’s not really gridlock, but it is Manhattan on a Friday night, so they aren’t exactly breaking the sound barrier either. The van lurches as they hit another stop light, and Chris curses something about the city timing the lights just to screw with him.

Sandy’s up front in the passenger seat, Jensen, Jared and Misha crammed in the back with what’s left of their supplies. Misha’s looking out the rear window even though there can’t be much to see; Jensen really hopes it’s not because he can’t stand to set eyes on Jensen, not that he’d really be able to blame Misha for it. Jared’s sitting next to Jensen on their cooler, pressed flush together from hip to knee. Jensen’s fingers are sort of numb from the strength he’s using to hold onto Jared’s hand but his partner – his friend – isn’t complaining.

"I'll understand if you resign, no hard feelings,” bubbles out of Jensen, because apparently he’s lost the ability to filter anything he says, “There's no reason for the rest of you to go down with the ship. It was my action; no one can blame you for that. If you quit now, it won't even be a blot on your resume."

The kind of silence that only comes with New York traffic follows that; the road rushing away beneath them, the sound of horns, and the music of bars they pass filtering in on the heavy weight of no one speaking.

At last, Chris breaks through it, laying on the horn at a cyclist as he speaks. "Well, I'm convinced. Where's my severance package?"

Jensen’s not sure what he was expecting – he knew they’d all just been waiting for him to let them off the hook, so naturally they were going to say yes – but that takes his already surprise-numb brain for a loop.

"Uh, I-"

"Are a tool, and didn't mean it? Yeah, I know,” Chris jumps in, glancing over his shoulder to lock Jensen with a look before focusing back on the sea of cars in front of him, “Not quitting, man, we'll figure something out."

"I'm with you guys, no matter what,” Sandy chimes in.

Misha grins and kicks at Jensen’s shoe. "Hey, I'm always down for an adventure. Besides, where else is a _freak_ supposed to go?"

Jensen feels the sharp prick of guilt in his chest like a physical thing. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Sure you did. It's true,” Misha shrugs back easily, at last fixing his intense blue gaze on Jensen, “We work insane hours on our feet in kitchens that make hell look like a moderate climate. We end up cut and burned with body temperatures that never regulate right and resign ourselves to spending the rest of forever smelling like food. We sweat, and we bleed, and we bust our asses for a business where breaking even is a miracle, just so we can drag out of bed after – on a good night - five hours of sleep and do it all over again. All for the sake of braised ramps and croquembouche. We're crazy, we're freaks, and you're one of us, buddy,” he reaches across the small space between them and smacks Jensen on the leg, “Fly the freak flag."

Jared is the first to start laughing, a quiet rumble that works its way up out of his throat louder and louder as the rest of the crew joins in. Jensen’s not even sure it’s actually funny, but once his diaphragm is shaking with it, he can’t seem to make himself stop either. Jared just squeezes his hand and laughs along.

***

It will never fail to amaze Jensen how much bigger the kitchen seems when there's no one else in it. It's never felt empty before though, like the very building knows what Jensen's done to them.

"It'll be ok," Jared murmurs reassuringly from the doorway. He actually sounds like he means it. Jensen wants so very badly to believe him. "The regulars know us, they'll stick around. And hey, no press is bad press, right?"

The smile that trembles on Jensen's face seems to pull at something in his throat, tightening it up around a thin stream of air. Absently he pats the counter, so many of his best memories wrapped up in steam and stainless steel. What are they going to do if they can't make the rent? More than the restaurant, they'll lose their home, their own little place in the world. His lungs burn like an overworked muscle.

Jared's arms come around him unexpectedly; strong and warm, practically goading the tears out of Jensen's eyes. He fights them anyway, rigid in the circle of Jared's embrace until it stops feeling so overwhelming. Jared holds on through it.

"We'll start a new place if we have to," he promises softly against the top of Jensen's head. "Just you and me and the crew, we can make it. We've done it with less."

True, the last time - the first time - it had just been them, the two of them ripping out molded dry wall and trying not to electrocute themselves with the rewiring - making this place livable. They'd done it with barely enough in the bank to make ends meet; survived on ramen noodles and day olds from the bakery down the street where a few years later they'd pick up Misha. They'd lived for nothing but to make this happen, somehow miraculously attracting their hodge-podge crew along the way; their wanna-be rock star grill-master and the pint-sized ballerina with knife skills of doom. Their crazy little family, built out of dedication and their own two - four - hands. And maybe that's enough.

"Yeah," he breathes at last, still a little tight in the throat, but feeling better, or at least less like he's going to fall to pieces at any moment. The hold on him loosens just enough for Jared to turn him around so that he's looking up into soft hazel eyes. Jared, with his ridiculously normal hair and insanely blank shirt, all for Jensen. And suddenly that fall-apart feeling comes flooding back, but in a whole new, inexplicable way. He needs to get away from it.

"Better get some sleep," Jensen says, not sure whether he's talking to himself or the man looking down at him, "Lots to deal with in the morning." Jensen takes a moment to be grateful that he decided before the event not to open for service tomorrow as he smacks Jared lightly on the shoulder and pulls away.

“Pussy.”

Jensen almost trips over his own feet. He takes a moment, waiting for reality to reassert itself because clearly Jared could not have possibly just said that.

“What?”

Jared lifts an eyebrow at him, leaning to rest the small of his back on the edge of the counter. “You go and defend my honor and now you’re just gonna waste all your prince charming points and not make a move?”

Jensen quirks a brow right back. “Wrecking our business, and the careers and lives of practically everyone we know, qualifies for prince charming points?”

“I have a complex, multi-layered system of tabulation,” Jared’s broad shoulders rise on a shrug.

“You’ve never had a system in your life,” Jensen accuses in return.

“Not true, I had a Super Nintendo Entertainment System as a kid.”

“Those were the shit.”

“Yeah they were,” Jared grins his agreement, “Also, you’re stalling. Thus, I reiterate, _pussy_.”

“Shut up,” Jensen’s unable to meet those piercing eyes as he mumbles, “maybe I’m nervous, ok?”

Jared laughs, “Because we’ve never gotten it on before?”

“I…” He hasn’t got anything to say to that, not anything coherent anyway. There are a lot of somethings; bits and pieces of ideas and wants and reasons that this is a terrible idea, but nothing he can work out the right words for. Then Jared’s there, always there, his hands ever so gently sliding up the side of Jensen’s face.

“Hey, I get it,” Jared whispers, “But man, you just pulled off the epic romantic gesture, you can’t not back it up now.”

“It doesn’t…” he starts, but it fits all wrong, beginning again with, “You’re my friend. I’m supposed to stand up for you.”

“You really gonna tell me that’s why you did it?” Jared’s thumb makes a soft arc back and forth across Jensen’s cheekbone. “The whole reason, nothing else?” The way he looks is so open, like Jensen’s already lost this fight and Jared’s just waiting on him to realize it. Like maybe Jared’s been waiting a while.

“All of the reasons we broke up are still there,” is what comes out of Jensen next, so quiet it’s barely a sound, even in the silence of the kitchen. It doesn’t seem like the most important point with everything else that happened today. It doesn’t even feel like a day, more like a year of days shoved into one not-so-neat package. But that’s the reason he gives and it’s the one that makes Jared smile a little brighter at him.

“Yeah, and they’re probably always gonna be,” Jared leans in close, lips not quite brushing Jensen’s, and Jensen is very starkly aware of how much he’s not pulling back from it the way he intends to. “We haven’t been able to shake each other yet, might as well make peace with our addictions."

Jared kisses him slow and sweet, the way Jensen knows his friend likes it best. It’s always good, any which way, even when it’s messy with teeth, and tongue and need, but this – he knows Jared would happily kiss like this for the rest of his life, and right now Jensen’s having a hard time coming up with a reason to stop him.

The pressure of Jared’s thumb against the hinge of his jaw prompts Jensen to open for him, breathing in around the push of Jared’s tongue. He cups Jensen’s head, one hand sliding down between his shoulder blades to the small of his back, pulling them tight together. A lock of baby-fine hair brushes against Jensen’s cheek, bringing with it the sharp smell of chemicals that’s so right on Jared and so very not right at the same time.

He pulls back slightly, despite the low whine of disapproval from his friend, to murmur, “One caveat. We have _got_ to do something with your hair, it’s freaking me out.”

***

The sound of his cell phone ringing nearly jolts Jensen's heart out his chest as he startles awake. Jared groans and mumbles something to the effect of, 'turn it off,' before hiding in the crook of Jensen's neck.

He manages to catch the phone before it jitters off the nightstand, glaring at the letters on the screen until they finally resolve into a name.

“There had better be a damn good reason for this, Sandy,” he snaps, searching by touch for his glasses before he remembers they're either somewhere down in the kitchen or on the stairs - the specifics of getting undressed last night had fuzzed out around the much more imperative functions of stumbling up the stairs while kissing Jared.

“Well good morning to you too, sunshine," she replies, good mood seemingly unfazed, "Just thought you might want to know that we’re the talk of the New York food blog scene.”

“I threw dinner at our client and walked out on the Times, of c-" He loses the rest of the word on a gasp when Jared protests the early morning conversation with his teeth. "-Course we’re the talk.”

There's a pause on the line and when Sandy's voice comes back, there's a dark brand of enthusiasm in it. “Are you having sex right now?”

“Was there something else?” Jensen sighs in lieu of an answer. Jared's slowly starting to rub his morning wood against Jensen's hip, and unless this conversation has some specific point, he'd prefer to get back to drowning his sorrows in the boundless sexual appetite of his re-boyfriend.

“Oh my god! Are you and Jared having sex right now? Are you getting back together? Why did you pick up the phone in the middle of having sex with Jared?”

“We’re not having sex!” Jensen barks back. It probably would have been more convincing if Jared hadn't thrown off his voice by choosing that moment to get a firm grip around Jensen's interested cock.

Jared, of course, helpfully chimes in with, “Yet”

“Oh my god, it is Jared!" Sandy crows delightedly, "I get to plan the menu for your commitment ceremony!”

“Sandy!” he snaps, batting Jared's hand away at the same time, even though his dick lodges a very strenuous protest over it. “No, _Sandy_ , not _Sadie_ ,” he whispers at the dog as she happily licks his elbow good morning. Jared chuckles and reaches out to scratch behind her ears.

“Spoil sport. Anyway, I thought that the fact that our Opentable has us booked up of three weeks straight might peak your interest.”

“I don- … what?”

“They loved it, Jen," she breathes, awed, ecstatic, other words Jensen can't think of right now because, really? They're booked? "I mean, not the clients, and I don’t know about the Times, but the bloggers love it. Somebody had a camera phone or something, and they posted the video with this diatribe about hypocrisy in the food movement or something. Anyway, it’s becoming this whole big thing, picked up on Eater and Grub Street and the whole deal. Everybody’s showing their support for the kitchen ‘freaks’. You’re like a hero.”

“I… what?”

“You struck a chord, Jensen," Sandy insists, "Don’t question the blessing. Oh, and, um… there’s one other thing.”

The hesitant way she says it snaps Jensen to nervous attention. “What?”

“Well, you remember that picture from Jared’s 21st?”

“Yeah.” Of course he remembers the picture, it’s the one and only non-sexual one he’s ever banned Jared from showing around. It had been taken on Jared’s birthday, true, but the celebration had been as much about having finally made it over that magic threshold of a year in business as it had been about Jared finally being legal. It had been just the four of them then; him, Jared, Chris and Sandy and they’d pretty much spent the night getting sloppy drunk and fixing up whatever crazy, impossible concoctions they could think of in the kitchen – they still owe the bourbon-bacon éclair to that evening.

“Well, um," she hedges, "I don’t know how it got out there, I swear, but a bunch of the blogs are posting it along with the story.”

The picture had been taken late into that night, well after they all should have packed it in. It prominently features Jensen in nothing but a pair of charcoal grey boxer briefs and motorcycle boots with his whites hanging open around his sides. Birthday-boy Jared’s hanging all over him in it, stripped down to a pair of low slung jeans with duct tape on the knee and a cowboy hat he’d plucked off a Chris’ head; his stomach decorated with the remnants of neon pink frosting – evidence of an incident Jensen had sworn all of them to secrecy about. Chris is hanging out to his other side, looking loose and a little dazed, while Sandy is barely visible in the back, trying to simultaneously give all three of them bunny ears. They’re all sloppy and smiling, high on cheap booze and the realization that this crazy thing they had going just might work. It ranked right up there in the top 10 nights of Jensen’s life, but that doesn’t mean he wants the evidence of it plastered all over the world wide web.

“Shit.”

“It’s not that bad,” Sandy assures him.

“Yeah, great, I… thanks, thanks for letting me know – about everything I mean, it’s… stunning.”

“You got that right! Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, boss! You boys have fun, now!”

The phone shuts itself off with a _cli-click_ , and Jensen turns his eyes on Jared who's watching him curiously.

"So, hey," Jensen leads in casually, setting the phone aside, "remember that picture from your 21st birthday?"

"Yeah," Jared answers. It was probably supposed to be casual too, but Jensen saw the hesitation in his eyes. So that's how it is, huh?

“Boy, I’m gonna kill you.”

EPILOGUE

“Where are my soft-shells?”

“Fifty seconds!” Colin calls out, sounding only moderately overwhelmed as he checks the crabs. At least his voice seems to have stopped breaking every time he has to speak to Jensen directly.

“Kid’s got that specificity thing down pat,” Chris winks at him, bent over his own station.

“He’s learning from the best,” Jensen deadpans back, trying not to react when Colin plates the damn thing upside down, gets halfway through before realizing what he’s doing and fixes it. It’s important to let him learn it on his own, Jensen knows, but it still drives him up the wall when he could just do it.

The scrabble-scrabble-huff of running canines momentarily precedes the sight of Jared jogging the dogs – yes, plural, Jensen’s a giant sap who let Jared’s fine, fine ass blackmail him into getting another dog – in the back door and up the stairs. Technically that violates quite a few health codes, but it’s either that or leave them locked upstairs for the whole service and Jensen would rather take the risk of letting Jared run them around than the guarantee of dog crap on their floor.

Plus, taking Jared off the line for a few minutes gives their Kitchen Bitch a chance to actually get his hands dirty. And that’s a good thing, Jensen reminds himself, even if it does mean the soft-shells get plated upside down.

“Any year,” he yell-sighs over the sound of Jared clomping down the stairs like a drunken Clydesdale.

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’, _bossy_ ,” Jared grumbles. He jumps the last couple of steps and starts scrubbing down in the sink.

The slap of broad hands on his ass makes Jensen jump.

“Just dryin’ my hands,” Jared grins, giving Jensen’s ass an extra-long squeeze before releasing him and wiping the wet backs of his hands on Jensen’s pants.

“Delightful,” he snarks back, “And sanitary. When the DOH shuts us down you’re the one dealing with the red tape.”

“Ah, prissy little whiners,” Jared taps Colin on the shoulder as he jokes, seamlessly taking over the station, “Everything tastes better with a little dog hair.”

The new server, a girl named Katie with an ‘I will cut you’ attitude Jensen can appreciate, hustles in to pick up the orders for table six, dropping off a ticket for table eight while she’s at it. Jensen calls down the list, making a mental note about moving the duck to the tasting menu – that thing’s selling like hot cakes.

A year and a half after the blogs first came out with their names spattered all over the place and Jensen still keeps expecting wake up and find he dreamt the whole thing. They never did make the _Times_ , but they caught one hell of a review from _New York Magazine_ and got a nod from _Food and Wine_. Jared was featured in a group thing for _Bon Appetit_ a couple of months ago – their mothers probably single handedly doubled the sales of that issue - and they’ve even gotten calls about being on Iron Chef America which Jay is dying to do and Jensen has a panic attack just considering. Their reservations are full most nights, but there’s still room for locals and walk-ins which has always been a priority for them and while sometimes Jensen sort of wishes he could sit back and hit the pause button, it’s a good kind of problem to have. Besides, he’s got Jared and the crew if it ever really gets to be too much.

He smiles and calls out the next round of orders as they come in, catching a quick wink from Jared in confirmation that he heard. The little print off that Jared taped over his station so long ago catches Jensen’s eye as it almost inevitably does, positioned perfectly in his line of sight. It’s a copy of that first blog that made Jensen out to be the messiah of the ‘freak chef’ with that fucking picture – hadn’t that been a delight to explain to his parents? – decorated all around the edges with pictures of flowers and candles and burnt offerings. Jared calls it his shrine. Jensen resists the urge to smack him. At least most of the time.

That’s not the only picture in the kitchen, but the rest are tucked away on the bulletin board, safe from where anything might spatter or light them on fire – one of the many dangers of training a teenager on the line. Old and new pictures, ones from the very beginning when it was just the two of them trying to scoop the water out of their sinking ship before they drowned and later ones as they picked up members of the team. A couple are questionably appropriate to put up in a semi-public forum but they were all taken in or around this kitchen with this crew – plus the pups - and that’s just a part of who they are.

“Thinky thoughts!” Jared cries out in warning, echoed all around the kitchen in varying degrees of dramaticism. He hauls Jensen in by the front of his pants for a fast, messy kiss, wet with entirely too much sweat to be completely appealing, but Jensen can’t find it in himself to mind.

“Head in the game, JR,” Jared gives him the doggy-training nose tap, which is both annoying and annoyingly effective.

He scrubs at the end of his nose with the back of his hand and mutters, “Right back at you, JT.”

“If you two get any cuter you’re going to start shitting flowers and talking bunny-rabbits,” Chris gripes, rolling his eyes and smiling all at once. Sandy laughs and reaches over to tip the back of his hat forward with her knife, covering his eyes. He menaces at her with his tongs, but it loses some of the force when a macerated blueberry splats into the side of his face. Misha dives for cover behind his station. It really is like working with a bunch of kindergarteners.

“Settle down, children,” he scolds, calling out another ticket as Brock hands it off. There are smiles all around under heat-red faces and half-whispered threats about ‘later’. Jared stick out his tongue at Jensen and laughs, flipping traffic-cone-orange streaked hair back to focus on his proteins.

Yeah, Jensen thinks, it’s a good kind of problem to have.  


  
**_The End_ ** **__**


End file.
